Into That Good Night
by WitchGirl
Summary: As one relationship ends—painfully—for Greg, another one blossoms from its ashes. Nick/Greg.
1. Prologue

Into That Good Night

**Summary:** As one relationship ends—painfully—for Greg, another one blossoms from its ashes.

_**Author's Note:**_ Posting will occur every Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Hope this prologue whets your appetite.

* * *

Prologue

It was nice to hear music in the lab again. Nostalgic, even. Greg had to smile at that fact alone, although the dancing girl in the middle of the room did help. Her back was to him, her ponytail swinging with her hips to the rhythm of the song, completely lost inside the melody. Greg recalled the addictiveness of a good beat, and imagined that she'd gotten suckered into the dance the same way he had in years past. It had probably started with a little head bob as she did her work. And then, she had started mouthing the words. After that, she'd started singing along, probably out of tune. Then her shoulders had gotten involved, and soon, the virus spread quickly through her body, and when it infected her hips, she'd lost herself completely, and it was over.

The music had won.

She had probably let it win, considering she thought she was one of the last people around on her shift, and the new shift hadn't yet started. She probably hadn't expected to be caught. And Greg didn't want her to stop, so he kept quiet as he watched her curves move quietly to classic rock. He watched her until she turned around and faltered, reaching to the stereo immediately and turning it off.

"Sorry…" Riley muttered, red creeping into her cheeks.

"No, no, no, you were brilliant," Greg confessed, giving her a slow clap as he stepped into the break room.

"I thought you'd left," she said, smoothing out her t-shirt.

"I'm glad I didn't," he told her with a wry smirk as he went over to the stereo. He snorted. "Great dancing, Riley, but I have to ask." He turned around and held up a jewel case. "Bryan Adams? Really?"

She rolled her eyes. "I can't help it, OK?"

"It's not even old school Bryan Adams," said Greg. "You were dancing to _When You're Gone_."

"Call it a guilty pleasure," said Riley.

"You struck me as more of a Pink Floyd kinda gal," Greg commented, leaning back on the table.

"Try Jimmy Buffet," she said.

"Well, if we couldn't laugh, then we'd all go insane," Greg quoted.

"Ah, so you've heard of him."

Greg rolled his eyes at her joke and put the jewel case on the table again, where he saw a white piece of paper with a sketch on it of a young woman sleeping on a bed. "Hey…" he said, picking it up. "Did you do this? It's really good."

"Yeah…" Riley said, shifting. "Sometimes, crime scene photos can't tell you everything. I…draw what I remember. See if my subconscious caught something the camera didn't."

And then, Greg realized the woman in the drawing wasn't sleeping. He gingerly put it down, embarrassed, as if he had disturbed the victim's rest. "Oh." Then his mind processed what she'd just said to him. "Wait, how can you draw something the camera missed?"

She laughed and walked over to him and pointed at the picture. "It's not about _evidence_, Greg, it's about first impressions." She pulled out a crime scene photo from a file. The woman in the photo was in a completely different position than she was in the drawing. She was contorted, her arms bound to the post, and clearly dead.

"Why did you draw her as if she were sleeping?" Greg asked, his fingers running over the pencil sketch.

"I… don't know…" Riley confessed, squirming a little. "That's just what I… felt. What she might have been doing. Before… Oh, it's stupid." She dismissed it, taking the paper up and folding it twice before shoving it in her pocket. "It's not forensics."

"It's not," Greg agreed. "It's art."

"It's not logical," she returned. "When processing evidence, you have to proceed in a specific manner. We can't afford to postulate or assume anything because—"

"Riley, you don't have to recite the handbook to me," Greg interrupted her.

She frowned. "That's in the handbook?"

Greg laughed. "You don't have to be rational all the time. I, myself, believe in the validity of a gut instinct, or a sixth sense. Nana Olaf says I have a great skill in that area."

"Aha…" said Riley, slowly. She took a step towards him. "And… what does your sixth sense say about me?"

Instinctively, Greg took a step back. "In all honesty my third eye is all cloudy when it comes to you."

She smirked. "Well…" She looked at her watch. "It's late. We're both off shift now. Maybe you'd… be hungry?"

"Starving," Greg confessed, but suddenly remembered something. "Oh, crap…"

She seemed confused. "What's wrong?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't believe that he'd forgotten. "Um… I have a date."

Riley's shoulders slumped. "Oh…" She tried, but was unable to completely mask her disappointment.

And that's when it hit Greg. "Oh my god…" he muttered. "You were asking me out, weren't you?"

She blinked, rapidly, her eyes wide. "What? Me? Oh, no, I was just… hungry, and looking for, you know, someone to eat breakfast with. That's all."

She shrugged, but that same red that had flooded her cheeks when Greg had caught her dancing had returned as she moved swiftly to the table and turned her back on Greg, shuffling through her crime scene photos.

Greg built his lip as he stared guiltily at her back. "Riley, I'm sorry if I made you think that I—"

"No," Riley interrupted quickly. "I mean, I don't even know what you're talking about. But you didn't make me think—" She forced a laugh, tossing her head back, then flashed him a confident smile. "I mean… I didn't think anything. I had no thoughts whatsoever. That's why my dad used to call me a scatterbrain." She forced another laugh and gathered up her file. "Um… I'm just gonna go home, grab some drive-thru on the way and crash."

"I'm seeing somebody," Greg told her as she looked at him.

She nodded rapidly. "Of course you are."

"I probably should have mentioned that a while ago… But it's not really something I talk about much."

"Oh, I'm sure she's lovely," Riley said, her intonations all over the place.

Greg said nothing, he simply shrugged.

"Is it serious?"

Greg smiled. "Yeah, I think so."

She pursed her lips and nodded. "Well then, congratulations." She seemed about to say more, but changed her mind and quickly made her exit.

Greg sighed, then checked his watch again and grimaced. He was late. He should have probably left the lab about a half hour ago, but he'd completely forgotten about the breakfast date.

But it didn't really matter. Neither of them was ever really particular about punctuality. Nonetheless, Greg swung by a gift shop and added a box of chocolates to the Denny's takeaway he'd picked up along the way.

When Greg reached the hospital, he cast a kind hello to Nora, the receptionist, and made his way directly his lover's room. He knocked politely on the door before entering with a grin, making the man in the bed look up and cast Greg a knowing smirk.

"You're late," he observed.

"I know," Greg sighed.

"But you brought chocolate, so it's forgiven." The man in the bed reached his two, skinny arms out, hungrily. "Gimme."

Unable to resist the pleas of the man he loved, Greg handed him the Denny's takeout.

His lover laughed. "Not the breakfast, the chocolate!"

Greg rolled his eyes and exchanged the brown paper bag for the box of chocolates, which his lover opened and sampled like a connoisseur, his eyes closed as he emitted a low moan of satisfaction.

Greg took a seat, his eyes never leaving the blissful expression on his lover's face. "I'm sorry I'm late, Neil."

His lover opened his eyes and winked at Greg. "No problem, Greg. I have all the time in the world."

* * *

**Note:** You thought it was gonna be Nick, didn't you?


	2. About the Dog

**_Author's Note:_** This should be standard by now, but I just wanted to thank LaughableBlackStorm for the beta, as usual, you're fabulous, and here's chapter one. :o)

Chapter One: About The Dog

_One Month Earlier…_

"Vilmer's Disease," said Dr. Norton frankly as he stared directly at Greg.

The younger man frowned. "Tell me that's a fancy word for the common cold."

"No, that would be rhinovirus," the doctor said.

"But you _said_ that it was just a cold," Greg pressed. "Every other time we've come in here, you've tested him and sent him home, saying it was just a cold. You said it was just a cold. Now you're telling me that all this time, it _hasn't_ been just a cold? It's been something else?"

Dr. Norton sighed. "I am very sorry, Mr. Sanders, but Vilmer's is a rare disorder and can present itself with cold or flu-like symptoms, due to how it attacks the lungs and respiratory track. If we had caught it sooner, there may have been something—"

"So you're telling me this is _your_ fault," Greg hissed, anger flaring in his chest. "Because I have _brought_ him here, when he stopped breathing at night, and you said 'sleep apnea is normal when dealing with a cold.' I brought him here when the cold medication didn't work and you said to give it time. And I brought him here when he _couldn't stop coughing_ and you still brushed him off. He's been here, Doc, so it has to be your fault that you didn't catch it."

"Vilmer's is not a virus, Mr. Sanders, nor is it a bacterial infection, and nor is it a cancer. It does not show up in any of our routine tests, but believe me when I tell you that we did _look_, every time you brought him in here. We looked, and we found nothing."

"You didn't look hard enough," Greg snapped. "Because it was _there_. Inside him all this time."

"Mr. Sanders…" Dr. Norton began quietly, his voice soothing, but serious. "I haven't even told you what this diagnosis means yet."

"I can only guess from your expression that it's nothing good," Greg muttered.

Dr. Norton nodded. "We don't know what causes it, exactly. But it has to do with certain pyrogenic granulomas that form in the blood stream, irritating the vascular walls and constricting flow to vital organs, which can become inflamed. It can be treated—"

"Then treat him," Greg interrupted. "Now. Treat him _now_."

"—but only in the early stages. In the case of your friend, the disease has cut off blood flow to the lungs and heart, causing the organs to atrophy."

Greg's expression grew grave. "I don't think I understand…" he said, wavering slightly.

"Yes, you do," said the doctor, his dark eyes piercing. "The disease has done too much damage to his heart—"

"No," Greg interrupted, firmly. "No, you're wrong. He has a very strong heart."

Dr. Norton paused, holding his breath before he went on. "That may be true. But that strong heart is fading."

"OK…" Greg muttered, avoiding the doctor's eyes. "I… give you permission to do… surgery."

"Even if you were authorized to give that permission," Dr. Norton began, "the transplant list is long, and Neil is nowhere near the top of it."

Greg looked up, stunned. "You mean… he would need a new heart?"

Dr. Norton nodded.

Greg looked away again, his hand creeping up against his own chest, where he clenched it into a fist, feeling the steady rhythm of his own heart pumping dependably inside of him. _I'd give it to him…_

"Would you like me to tell him?" Dr. Norton asked, jarring Greg from his thoughts.

Slowly, Greg shook his head and looked into the room where Neil sat up in his bed, animatedly playing his Nintendo DS. "No. I'll do it."

Greg walked into the room slowly and looked up as Neil leaned to the side and almost fell off his bed, madly punching one of the buttons.

"Neil."

"Just a sec—" said Neil as he chewed on his lip.

Greg opened his mouth to protest but instantly closed it, allowing Neil to have his moment. In the meantime, he took in his lover's appearance. A few months ago, Neil had possessed admirable muscle tone but held an overall slender stature. Now, his muscles were fading, and he just looked… small. Blessed with naturally blond hair, Neil had always kept it trimmed short, but now it was scraggly, because he hadn't had the opportunity to trim it. But his eyes were the same. A little sunken, the pupils a little wider, but all in all, his eyes were the same.

"Neil," he said again, this time in a whisper as he sat down next to his lover's bed.

"Hang on…" said Neil, his jaw hanging open now as he stared at the small screen of his video game. "Almost…"

"Neil, you're dying."

There was a strange musical cord that rang out through the room and Neil lowered the DS and looked straight ahead of him. "Game over," he said.

Greg reached up and wrapped his fingers around Neil's pale arm. Neil looked up at him, his eyes suddenly changed in a way that Greg hadn't expected.

"Will you still be here when I'm ugly and frail?"

Greg smiled, despite the nausea that rose in his stomach. "Are you sure you can get uglier than this?"

Neil frowned, then hit Greg with his pillow.

And they laughed.

They laughed a lot.

* * *

_Present._

"Greg?"

He was startled and jumped in his seat. "Huh?"

Nick cocked an eyebrow at him and tossed his head at the car door. "We're here. You getting out?"

"Oh, yeah…" Greg muttered, exiting the vehicle and looking up at the house before him. He just stared at it, silhouetted against the night sky, this structure that housed a corpse.

"You seem a little distracted," said Nick from right beside him, making Greg jump. "You OK?"

"Yeah," Greg said, rubbing the back of his neck to get his hairs to stop standing on end. "Great."

Nick gave him a skeptical look before dismissing it and walking up the front steps to the house, where Greg followed.

Nick stopped to talk to David, but Greg continued on, following the blood drops in the hallway to the living room, where a man had been stabbed several times in the back and now lay silent on the couch, his final resting place.

Greg tiled his head to the side, then raised his camera and took a picture. He slowly lowered the camera and wondered if it were better to know that death was on your doorstep, or if the Grim Reaper just walked in without knocking or invitation.

Greg took another picture.

He took a few steps toward the body, avoiding the small blood trail and looked down at it for a moment. He didn't do anything, he just looked.

"How's it going in here?" Nick asked from the doorway, making Greg turn around.

"Not good, looks like someone's been murdered in here," Greg returned in mock surprise.

Nick chuckled. "You know what I mean."

"Fine," Greg replied, turning away from the Texan and taking a few more steps to the body. He kneeled down beside the couch, and for some reason decided to muse out loud. "Nick… what's the point?

"Beg pardon?" Nick said, coming around the back of the couch.

"He's dead," Greg replied. "Woulda died at some point or another. What's the difference if he dies now or if he dies when he's eighty-five from too much bacon?"

"Greg, no one has the right to take someone else's life," Nick said.

Greg had no response to that. "OK, so what did David say COD was?"

Nick didn't answer right away. But then, "Well, I'm pretty sure it's the seven stab wounds in the back. TOD was maybe twelve hours ago. Brass says the neighbor found him when she came over looking for her cat."

Something in Greg's pocket buzzed and he absentmindedly reached in and pulled out his phone. He saw a text message from Neil and stood up.

"What's up?" Nick asked.

Greg read the message. "I, uh… I have to go." He looked up at Nick. "Can you handle this here? Or… Catherine could—"

"No," Nick interrupted, visibly concerned. He shook his head, as if to clear it. "I mean… Yeah, I'm fine here. What do you have to do?"

"There's just somewhere I have to be," Greg replied, putting his phone away. He gave Nick an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry to bail on you, but this is important."

"Yeah, of course," said Nick slowly.

Greg turned his back on the dead man and Nick and walked out of the house.

* * *

Greg pushed the key in the lock and turned it, successfully opening the door and coming inside to find his apartment completely trashed, pillows, blankets and sweaters all over the place, and there was Neil by the window, wearing ten sweaters, continuously opening and closing the curtains.

When he heard the door slam, he turned to Greg and blinked. "I can't get warm," he said. "And… and the light…" He gestured frantically at the window. "It doesn't work."

Greg sighed, taking in his frail form, his mussed hair, and the film of sweat that glinted in the light. "Neil," he said, stepping forward. "You're having one of your fits again."

Neil shook his head and sniffed. "No," he said, his voice a strange, fragile tremolo. "No, no, no, it's all wrong." He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweater. "I'm glad you're here," he said, turning back to the curtains and pulling them shut violently. He stepped back and looked at it approvingly. "Glad you're here."

"Neil…" Greg said softly, stepping towards him.

The blond man gripped his chest and fell to his knees. "Greg, Greg, it hurts…"

Greg ran to him then, gathering Neil up in his arms like a scared child. "It's just another fever. It'll pass."

Neil squirmed in his grip. "Hot—so hot—must… ah!" He pushed Greg away and pulled off several layers of sweaters to reveal a wifebeater drenched in sweat. Neil took deep, scratchy breaths.

"Do you want me to take you to the hospital?" Greg asked.

"I like it here…" Neil replied, his eyes glassy and far away. "Right here, I like it right here. With you."

Greg said nothing, he simply watched as Neil tried to calm his own raspy breathing. "We still have the anti-inflammatory pills. They tend to help a little, don't they?"

Neil contemplated this, then shook his head. "Stupid blood. Stupid, poisoned blood…" He sniffed one last time before his face contorted in a twisted agony that was more than physical. "Oh god…"

Greg hushed him, embracing him again and allowing Neil to bury his face in the side of Greg's neck, trembling and hot, grasping Greg's shirt in tight fists. Greg had held him like this before, in more intimate settings, in better times, and afterwards, after the heat and the shaking and the sweat had all evaporated into the air, they had lied together, and lied together about the lives they were going to lead… together.

Always the telepath, Neil whispered, "Tell me… about the dog."

"He's a mutt, just like us," Greg whispered into his hair. "A raggedy bold beautiful mix of all the best dogs in the world, and he was made just for us. Chosen out of golden retrievers and Labradors at the puppy orphanage… and you pick him up and you name him—"

"Stoker."

"I thought his name was Kipling," Greg said.

"_My_ dog," Neil insisted, his voice scratchier than ever. "I can name him and rename him what I want. Besides, my dog has jaws like a vampire. Didn't grow up in the wild jungles of India… grew up on a farm in Indiana. Which has 'India' in its name, but probably the furthest thing from—" He cut himself off, every muscle in his body tensing as he inhaled sharply and Greg held him.

"What is it?"

"My chest…" Neil breathed. "It's on fire."

"How can our dog grow up on a farm in Indiana if we adopt him as a puppy in Las Vegas?"

"We move to Indiana," Neil replied. "And Stoker is no puppy, he's a bonafide sheepdog. Farmer says he can't run anymore. He's useless. Old, worn out thing, can't breathe right anymore, something about his blood vessels getting inflamed, his body turning on him…" He paused, but Greg just listened to his broken breathing. "… So we take him. We take an old sheepdog who can't run no more 'cause we love him, and he's still a good dog, still tries hard, still sweeter than… You." He kissed the side of Greg's neck. "Oh you, oh you, oh you…" He kissed up Greg's neck, and Greg closed his eyes as he felt the hot, chapped, wet lips of his fragile lover move desperately up his neck, his jaw line, until he found Greg's lips. The kiss was quiet and delicate, and if it had been a melody, it would have been a low velvety legato. Not something anyone could dance to, but definitely something you could fall asleep to, a song you could listen to over and over again until it guided you by the hand into your dreams.

And then Neil pulled away, gasping for air, and leaned his forehead against Greg's. "You don't deserve to go through this… _I_ don't deserve to go _through_ this…"

The tears, almost scalding, fell onto Greg's chest, but his eyes were remarkably dry.

Months ago, Greg would have laughed if Neil had asked Greg to carry him. Neil was at least Greg's size, if not taller, but now, he was so small, half of what he used to be, and Greg reached out and his arm found the crook of Neil's knees as he carried the man to the bedroom. He laid him out on the covers and took his rightful place beside the fading man.

"I wouldn't blame you if you left," Neil whispered. "If it were me, I…"

Greg put a finger to his lips. "I think your fever's breaking."

Neil closed his eyes. "Thank you… for coming home… I know you were working, but the light, it wouldn't work, and I couldn't get warm… But you're like a sun." He smiled and opened his eyes again, reaching out and placing a clammy hand on Greg's cheek. "My heat source. The light works better when you're here."

Greg nodded. "Rest now."

"Tell me about the dog."

"I just did."

"Tell me again."

"About Kipling or Stoker?"

Neil took a deep, quaking breath, than coughed, causing Greg to wince. When he recovered, he looked up at Greg and offered him a half-shrug in response. "Just tell me about the dog, Greg."

Greg reached out and stroked Neil's hair gently, reverently, as if he were touching the corpse of an angel. "He's a mutt. Just like you. A mix of all the best dogs in the world."

"And only the best…" Neil muttered, closing his eyes.

"And he's ours," Greg continued. "And he will always be ours, no matter what he does, or how old he gets. Because he's family."

"Family…" Neil whispered.

"Right," said Greg. "And… and he lives a very, very long time. As long as a dog can live. And we give him everything he needs, toys, food, water, and lots of yard space to run around in."

"In India…"

"And he's the happiest dog in the world," Greg said quietly.

Neil said nothing, his chest moving up and down. Greg leaned forward and kissed his wet forehead, smoothing his hair down. With a sigh, he got to his feet slowly, looking over his shoulder one last time at Neil's frail form.

Just as he reached the doorframe, Neil's sleepy voice anchored him to the room.

"He live longer than me?"

Greg looked back. Neil hadn't opened his eyes, or changed positions. For a moment, Greg wondered if he'd spoken at all.

"Both of you," he said anyway, "live long, perfect lives."

Neil said nothing. He didn't even move. So Greg turned around and left him there, looking at his watch. He still had time to get back to his shift. He needed it.

Someone had to pay for Neil's treatment.

* * *

Greg walked into Wendy's lab just as Nick was dropping off some blood samples. The younger man eagerly looked at his partner on the case.

"So, catch me up," he said with a smile. "What'd you find at the scene?"

But Nick was frowning as they exited the lab. "Where'd you run off to so quickly anyway?"

Greg shrugged, casually. "Neighbor locked himself out. I hold a spare key for him."

"He couldn't have waited?" Nick asked, clearly suspicious. "The second your phone buzzed, you hightailed it out of there like your life depended on it."

"He had an appointment to get to," Greg said quickly. "So what about our stabbing victim? Tell me about him—"

They were interrupted by Greg's ringing phone, and the younger man sighed and glanced at the caller ID. He held a finger up to Nick to signal him to wait a moment as he answered the phone and turned away from the Texan.

"Hey, I thought you were sleeping…" he said, so quietly that Nick barely heard. "No… No, it won't. No…" Greg glanced over his shoulder at Nick, before turning around again and striding off down the hall. "Honey, I already told you about the dog…"

Nick watched Greg leave, pondering the peculiarity of the phone call as Riley rounded the corner and passed Greg on his way out. She met Nick in the hall.

"That his girlfriend?" Riley asked him, looking over her shoulder at Greg.

Nick frowned. "Greg has a girlfriend?"

Riley shrugged, her cheeks a light shade of pink. "Says it's pretty serious."

"I haven't heard anything about her…" Nick muttered, slightly offended that Greg had neglected to mention that he was in a serious relationship.

"Join the club," said Riley. "He says he doesn't like to talk about it."

"That's not true, he's the worst secret-keeper in the world," said Nick. "He always kisses and tells." He smiled. "I remember one time, he took his date's skin cells—"

"I don't think I want to hear it," Riley interrupted. She paused a moment. "Nick, how long do you think he's been seeing her?"

"What makes you think I'd know that?" Nick returned.

"I guess you're right," she replied. "I just… a serious relationship takes time, right? So what, has it been months? Years?"

Nick pursed his lips and shook his head, helplessly. "Can't help you."

"I guess it's none of my business anyway," said Riley, with an awkward shrug. "Anyway, I have an appointment with Mandy, so I'll see ya…"

Nick watched her head towards the fingerprint lab, then looked in the direction that Greg had been headed, wondering about this mysterious new girlfriend of his.


	3. For Richer or Poorer

**_Author's Note:_** Once again, don't worry about updates. Unless I say otherwise, this will be updated Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

Chapter 2: For Richer or Poorer

Nick turned into the break room where he saw Greg on the couch, bent over and resting his elbows on his thighs, one hand holding a phone to his ear, the other raked back in his hair.

"Well, you know that's not how it works… Uh huh… Right… That's right… No. No, I won't let you do that… No, babe, that's just not gonna fly. Do you have any idea what would happen if you went back to work? I can't let you do that… Yes, I will… I don't care if you don't like it, I will… OK… Yeah… We'll talk about this when I get home… Yes, I promise… No, I won't forget… Look, if anything, _you'll_ remember, won't you?" Greg looked up at that point and stopped, a look of horrified guilt crossing his face as if Nick had just caught him in some sort of criminal act. His jaw hung open for a moment as Nick watched him and shrugged, curiosity in his eyes.

"Listen, babe, I have to go now… Yeah. Work stuff…" Greg closed his eyes and sighed, exasperated. "I said we'll talk about this later. Look, I really gotta go, OK, so please, just… go to sleep, OK?" He hung up fast, as if he couldn't wait to get off the phone and looked up at Nick. And then, strangely, he smiled. "So, I'm sorry. I totally interrupted you. What were you saying about the case?"

Nick cracked a wry smile. "Sounds like you're having a little trouble with the girlfriend."

Greg blinked rapidly, obviously surprised by Nick's statement. "What? Girl—Oh! No. No, um…" He frowned, struggling to find the words. "No, that was just…"

"Greg, it's OK," Nick said with a laugh. "Why didn't you tell me about her sooner?"

Greg seemed dumbstruck, but then shrugged. "I… didn't think you'd… approve."

Nick was touched. "My approval means something to you?" He shook his head. "And anyway, why wouldn't I approve? She makes you happy, right?"

Greg looked away from Nick, but didn't answer the question.

"She does… make you happy, doesn't she?" Nick pressed, sensing the tension in the air.

"There've been… better times…" Greg muttered, a strange distance in his eyes that Nick couldn't decipher. "But let's not talk about that." He clapped his hands. "So. Stabbed man. Patrick Connelly, right? What's his deal? Any suspects?"

"Oh, no," said Nick, taking a seat in a chair across from Greg. "Patrick Connelly will still be dead in ten minutes. Tell me about this girl, Greg. How long have you been seeing each other?"

Greg sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hands. "Nick, can't you tell when someone just wants to change the subject?"

A chill swept between them and erected a wall. Nick had no idea why Greg was suddenly so secretive about his love life, when in the past he had been very much into over-sharing. Nick couldn't help but take it a little personally. "Well, Greg…" he began, trying to make sense of it. "I'm just trying to—"

"I know what you're trying to do," Greg interrupted. "But we've been having problems, and I really, _really_ can't talk about them now. Not here. Work is… It's work. That whole thing…" He made circles in the air with his hand. "That's for after work. I can't think about it now, not when there's a murderer to be caught." He inhaled deeply, then smiled again. "So. If you wouldn't mind…"

A little wounded, Nick nodded slowly. "Yeah…" He swallowed to moisten his dry mouth. "Um… OK. So, Brass says he's divorced, but his ex is in Hawaii with her new husband."

"Honeymoon?" Greg guessed.

"You got it," Nick replied. "It looks like he was attacked from behind, and I didn't get much in the way of fingernail scrapings that I think will be too helpful…" He trailed off as he noticed Greg's focus fading. The younger man was staring to the left of Nick, his eyes glazed over. "We also found the bones of what look to be some sort of marsupial," Nick said loudly. "A kangaroo-wallaby hybrid was David's guess, but I think it's a platypus."

Greg was nodding, and then he frowned, turning back to Nick. "A platypus isn't a marsupial," he said.

"Yes it is," said Nick.

"Oh…" Greg mumbled.

"Anyway, there were no marsupial remains. Just making sure you were paying attention." Nick paused. "Seriously, Greg, what's going on?"

Greg took a deep breath, then held it a moment. "You don't think Catherine would let me do some more overtime this month, do you?"

Nick frowned. "Didn't you max out your hours last month?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "But, I don't know, I just thought maybe Catherine could cut me a deal or something."

"That sort of thing isn't up to Catherine," Nick told him. "You know that."

"Maybe I could use some of… yours?" Greg proposed. "I mean… How much overtime have you used this year? And it's nearly Christmas, so you'll be wanting time off for your family and stuff, and the lab will need other folks to stick around."

"I can't give you my overtime hours, Greg, that defeats the purpose of limiting overtime per person," Nick said. "The whole point is to make sure it's equitable."

"Mm…" Greg muttered.

"Why do you need so much overtime anyway?" Nick asked the question tentatively.

"I had a root canal," Greg explained. "And my insurance is being a bitch about covering it."

"Aren't you on the lab's dental plan?" Nick asked. "I thought they covered root canals."

"There were complications with this one," said Greg. "Strange circumstances. Infected gums and such, experimental treatment for a rare disease, insurance says it's too risky…" He chewed on his lip, deep in thought.

"You could always call your rep," Nick suggested. "Duke it out with the company."

"Looks like I'll have to…"

"Wait, you have a rare gum disease?" Nick asked.

"What?" Greg replied, snapping out of his trance.

Nick could tell that something else was going on, but if Greg insisted on being secretive about it, there was nothing he could do to change that. "Never mind," he said, sounding colder than he expected. "Why don't you go over the crime scene photos with me? I'll give you a virtual tour."

"Sure," said Greg, getting to his feet.

Nick allowed the younger man to exit first, then lingered, noticing how the strange tension in the air dissolved upon Greg's exit. With a tired shake of his head, he followed Greg to the layout room.

* * *

Greg held his mail under his arm and fiddled with the keys to his apartment, steeling himself for the scene he was about to witness beyond the door. After he'd returned from his visit with Neil, the rest of the night had gone rather smoothly. Nick had decided to stop asking Greg about his nonexistent girlfriend, and Greg had succeeded in immersing himself in his work, allowing him to forget the life he lived outside of the lab.

He opened the door and expected to find his apartment in shambles, but it was no more or less messy than it had been earlier. Neil was not in the kitchen or the living room, which meant he was probably in the bedroom, hopefully sleeping. Greg didn't want to admit it, but he was glad for the reprieve. Taking care of Neil was exhausting, and Greg was thankful to have a moment to himself once in a while.

As he made himself some tea in the kitchen, he contemplated admitting Neil to the hospital again. Neil had been in and out of that place, but mostly out, due to the strain on their funds as Greg's insurance didn't cover Neil, and Neil's insurance company was cheaper than Ebenezer Scrooge.

Greg took a sip of his tea and sifted through the mail. Most of it was junk that he threw away quickly. One was an early Christmas letter from his mother, who always sent her cards directly after Thanksgiving. Greg set it aside to read later, and just beyond that letter was the hospital bill.

Greg lowered the teacup from his lips and set it down, handling the envelope with "SECOND NOTICE" stamped across it in large red letters. Greg's heart lurched as he opened it and reminded himself of the amount that they owed. Absently, he wondered if Catherine would give him a large Christmas bonus if he sucked up to her enough.

He pushed the idea of money to the back of his mind. He would pay for it somehow. The only alternative was to let Neil die.

_But he's dying anyway,_ a nagging voice chirped in the back of his mind.

Greg swatted the thought away like an annoying fly. Dr. Norton had told them of an experimental treatment that they were trying, and it was possible that it could help repair the damage to Neil's organs. It was possible that Neil wouldn't need a transplant at all. He could survive.

_But you know it won't work. And even if it will, you can't continue to pay for it._

This thought was more difficult to dismiss and Greg chewed on his lip, once again wondering about how he could possibly get his hands on some more funds.

"Greg?" a sleepy voice called from the hallway. "Are you home?"

Greg turned around to see Neil in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Oh no," he said. "I woke you up."

Neil shook his head. "Sleep comes and goes," he said with a sniff. "It's hard to sleep when you can't breathe. It's not your fault." Neil coughed, one hand covering his mouth, the other gripping his chest.

As if gravity were involved, Greg moved swiftly to Neil and placed a kind hand on his shoulder as the man recovered. Neil looked up with soft blue eyes. "We need to talk about the money."

Slowly, Greg nodded. "Come back to bed, you should lie down."

Neil allowed Greg to guide him back to the bedroom, and Greg noticed that his lover tried to disguise how grateful he was to be back in bed. Neil wrapped the covers around himself and his face peaked out at Greg from a make-shift hood.

Greg smiled as he reclined on the mattress. He didn't need sheets for warmth.

"I think I can go back to work," said Neil.

"No you can't," Greg insisted. "You can barely stand up for more than five minutes."

"Well, I could work from home," Neil returned. "I'm a writer; all I need is a laptop and an Internet connection."

"No, babe, that's way too stressful," Greg said, worried about his heart. "I remember the strain your editor's deadlines put on you when you _weren't_ sick."

"My editor's a douchebag, but the assistant editor is a sweetheart," Neil insisted. "I'll just send my work to her, do some freelance stuff, say, what's going on in the world right now anyway?"

"You're already getting overexcited," Greg said, stroking his hair. "It's not worth it."

"You can't pay the bills," said Neil quietly.

Greg hesitated. "We'll find a way."

"Greg, I don't want to leave you in debt," Neil whispered.

Greg smiled, his stroking of Neil's hair growing unconsciously harder. "Babe, I don't want you to leave me at all."

Neil's smile faded. "I'm glad you're here," he said for the second time that night. "Lesser men would have left. I would have left."

"You don't know what you're capable of until you're tested," Greg said quietly. "You don't know if you would have left or not."

"And I never will," Neil replied. "But you didn't leave. You stayed."

"Which is part of what makes me so perfect," said Greg with a smug smirk he didn't really feel.

"I want to race you," said Neil with a playful glint in his eye.

"In your condition? I'd whoop you so bad…"

"I don't care, I want to race you," Neil insisted.

Greg stretched and rolled over onto his back, groping around blindly on the end table until his fingers closed around a remote and he turned on the television, which flickered to life. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and walked over to the dresser, where he switched on their ancient Nintendo 64 and tossed a controller at Neil, who was resting against the headboard now, a dopey grin on his face.

"We'll race," Greg promised, crawling back onto the bed where he leaned his head on Neil's lap. "But you can't complain when I beat you."

* * *

Greg hid in the corner of the break room, watching the door as he argued on the phone.

"I know it's an experimental treatment," he said for the seventh time, "but you guys have to at least foot the bill for the hospital stay. We can pay for the treatment ourselves, all I'm asking for is room and board here."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sanders, but it's just not in Mr. Cooper's plan—"

"Well, isn't there anyway to supplement his plan?" Greg asked.

"At this stage, no," said the insurance lady. "Mr. Cooper would have to come in again and be reassessed, and since he already is having medical troubles, I doubt his request for a new plan would be approved."

Greg looked up as Nick entered the room and went to get a cup of coffee. "OK," Greg said into the phone. "Thank you for your time. Bye." And then, defeated, he hung up.

"What was that about?" Nick inquired, casually. "Or am I not allowed to ask?"

Greg tried to muster a smile, but found it impossible. "Insurance wars," he explained. "Looks like I'm going to have to take out a loan."

"What kind of disease do you have?" Nick asked, taking a step forward.

"It's private," Greg returned, a little too bitterly.

Nick stopped in his tracks. "How's your girlfriend?"

"Stop asking about my _girlfriend_…" Greg sighed, shaking his head. He rubbed his eyes with his hands and tried to think. "I was talking to Hodges a while ago. He said you sent him some powder that you got off the kitchen knife?"

"The knife had been cleaned," Nick said. "Tested positive for blood. We figure it was the murder weapon."

"What was the powder?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't have sent it off to Trace."

Greg winced. "Nick… don't be mad at me," he said. "I don't constantly ask you about _your_ personal life."

"Did it ever occur to you Greg that maybe I wanted you to ask me?" Nick returned.

Greg was caught off guard with that. "Um…" He tried to think. "OK, how's… life?"

"Not bad," Nick returned. "Except, there's something bugging my best friend and he won't open up about it. What do you make of that?"

Greg pursed his lips as he felt his cheeks grow warm. His eyes flickered to the floor, then up at Nick again. "Your… best friend?" he said slowly.

Nick didn't reply. He just continued to give Greg a cold look.

Greg shrugged. "Give him space," he said, then looked straight into Nick's eyes. "He'll probably come around eventually."

* * *

Greg was beginning to dread coming home. Neil would have good days and bad days. On the good days, it was almost like things used to be, back when they had told each other stories and laughed together about the day. But on the bad days…

As he opened the door, something shattered against the wall and Greg jumped.

He saw the source of it, a huddled pile of blankets cowering on the corner of the couch. From deep within the pile, a voice grumbled, "You're late."

Greg tried to smile and held up a box. "I brought chocolate." There was no reply from the mass of blankets. Greg approached with caution. "Can't get warm again?"

"You don't want to be here," Neil muttered. "I can tell. You're always late these days. Always." His head appeared out of the pile, his eyes sunken, his face devoid of color. His septum had collapsed, creating a dip in his nose and there was a crust at the corner of his eyes.

"Your pills make you paranoid," Greg said, trying to be reasonable as he sat down on the couch. "Why wouldn't I want to be here?"

"Because I'm diseased," Neil groaned, ducking under the blankets again. "Because you don't want to watch me die."

"You're crazy…" Greg tried to tell him. "Come here, Neil…"

"No," Neil said stubbornly.

"Please? I miss you—missed you." It was a hasty correction and Neil caught it.

He threw off the covers and looked at Greg sternly. "You think I've changed."

Greg closed his eyes, regretting his slip. "No. No, babe, I just… miss… holding you. Would you let me hold you?"

Neil wavered, and then closed his eyes, forcing tears down his cheeks as he let out a single sob. "I hate this."

Greg bit his tongue so hard, he almost drew blood. Instead of saying what he wanted to say, he nodded. "I know you do."

Gasping for air, Neil leaned forward and crawled towards Greg, curling into a ball as he rested his head on Greg's lap. Neither of them said anymore as Greg quietly stroked his hair, Neil's body trembling. He stared at the wall, unsure of what to do, part of him wishing he was back at work where he could spend time with the dead instead of the dying.

They had stopped the treatments. Dr. Norton had put Neil on the regular medication prescribed for Vilmer's instead, and the side effects weren't pleasant. Mood swings were the least of it. Neil could barely sleep at all due to nightmares, which kept Greg up too, and the retching sounds of the nausea was a difficult lullaby to fall asleep to, so Greg was having to steal naps at work. Catherine had caught him twice now, and she said the third time she wouldn't be so forgiving.

Greg continued to stare at the wall, though Neil had started talking again. For some reason, his ears wouldn't sort out the words Neil was saying. Either that, or Neil wasn't speaking coherently. Either way, there was a disconnect on both their parts. Neil didn't care if Greg was listening, and Greg didn't care if Neil was talking. At one point, Neil gripped Greg's knee painfully as his whole body tensed, and Greg closed his eyes tight to keep the tears at bay, entangling his hand in Neil's messy hair until the spasm subsided.

And then, "I feel sick," and Neil fled the room like a jackrabbit, leaving Greg alone to listen to the harsh vomiting sounds. In his mind's eye, Greg could see the activity tearing apart Neil's throat and leaving him raw and empty.

It was a state to which Greg could empathize.

* * *

"No, but I told you, he's my brother," Greg insisted into the phone. "He shares half my DNA, you have to give him at least _half_ my coverage!"

"Your brother has a different last name than you?" said the insurance man, doubtfully.

"OK, if you want to be like that, he's my half brother," Greg snapped. "He still shares a quarter of my genes. Can you give him a quarter of my coverage?"

"Mr. Sanders, we've heard thousands of stories just like yours," said the man, jaded. "I am really sorry that we can't help cover his medical bills, but Neil Cooper just isn't on your insurance, and you can't add him unless—"

"I know," Greg interrupted, closing his eyes. "I know…"

"Greg? What are you doing in my lab?"

Greg hastily hung up and winced from his spot from beneath the table.

There was a pause from the other side. "Greg?" Then, his voice got quieter. "Did I imagine hearing his voice?"

"No," Greg said loudly, coming out from under the table. "No, you didn't imagine it. Sorry, Henry."

Henry shrugged with a bright smile. "Aw, it's OK, Greg. Are you hiding from Catherine?"

"No," Greg said. "I was looking for privacy, and I know you take lunch at the same time every day, so I knew your lab would be empty."

"Gosh, am I that predicable?" Henry asked. "Well, anyway, I don't think I'm working on any of your cases, so…"

"Thanks for letting me sneak into your lab without you knowing about it," said Greg. "I really appreciate it.

"You look really tired," Henry observed, sounding surprised. "How much sleep did you get yesterday?"

"I've been a little stressed, that's all," Greg replied. "And I'm going to have to stop by the bank tomorrow to see if they can get me a loan…"

"Oh, well, if it's money you're worried about, I can lend it to you!" Henry cried eagerly.

Greg laughed. "Thanks, man, but unless you have a couple hundred thousand dollars at your disposal, I don't think you can help me."

Henry shrugged. "How much do you need?"

Greg laughed again, but this time he was a little more unsure. "No, seriously, Henry, don't…"

"I have money," Henry assured Greg. "Really. My family has trust funds with trust funds. I can give it to you, no problem."

Greg was confused. "Henry, I don't think you understand…"

"That was you're insurance you were on the phone with, right?" said Henry. "Clearly you're in some sort of jam, and they won't cover it. Just think of me as a nicer insurance company." He smiled for emphasis.

Greg's shoulders slumped. "That's… really, _really_ generous of you, Henry, honestly, but I couldn't. I don't even think I could pay you back—"

"Look!" Henry interrupted, laughing. "Do you know why I live in Las Vegas? Because some of my friends are gamblers. And I don't want them getting their kneecaps bashed in because they can't pay their debts. You're in the red. Let me pull you out of it. It's not a loan, it's a gift."

Greg shook his head. "No. Henry, listen. You may not think that something like that is a big deal, but it is to me. OK? I can't… I can't do that to you."

Henry's face fell. "But… if you don't get the money, won't something bad happen?"

Greg closed his eyes as his stomach lurched. "I don't think it matters either way."

Henry's frown deepened. "Oh. Well… I guess you can't make a horse drink, can you?"

Greg felt the despair wash over him again. "No. You really can't."


	4. Before the Bad Days

**_Author's Note:_** A long chapter to kick off your week. Kind of a sidetrack, but a relevant one. Enjoy.

Chapter Three: Before the Bad Days

It was a long time ago.

Nick and Greg were at the _Las Vegas Sun_ with Brass, trying to solve the murder of one of the reporters there. They were talking to everyone. It had been a long day, and they had talked to fifteen people who already told them how much of a bitch Erika Swanson was, which was probably why the first reporter who complimented her was also their first suspect.

"What can I say, she was always nice to me," Neil Cooper told them with a shrug, his eyes an arctic shade of blue. Those same eyes fell upon Greg and he smiled.

"You write for the Features section, is that right?" Brass asked, his eyebrows raised.

Neil nodded. "Sure do. Erika was always asking me what it was like to go out on assignment." He looked at Greg and said, as if speaking directly to the young CSI. "I used to be a freelancer. Traveling the world and reporting back at my leisure. I'd applied for fulltime work here, but they kept denying me. That is, until the _New York Times_ offered me a job. _Then_ the _Sun_ was tripping all over themselves to get me. It's funny what a little competition can do for you."

"Where did you go?" Greg asked in spite of himself, earning a stern glare from Brass.

"That's not important," the detective said. "What was your relationship with Erika Swanson?"

"Relationship?" Neil blinked. "We were colleagues."

"Well you're the only one in this office who has nothing but nice things to say about her," Brass pointed out. "Maybe you were getting a little somethin' something?"

Neil laughed. "Oh no," he said, insistently. "Oh, no, no, _no._"

"Are you lying to me, Mr. Cooper?" Brass asked pointedly. "Because we'll find out if you are. My boys here got a lab that can tell me the history of anyone in this room. They leave no stone unturned, and they always find out your deepest darkest secrets."

Neil's eyes flickered back to Greg and he smirked. "I'll bet."

"So exactly how well did you know Erika Swanson?"

"I told you, we were colleagues," Neil insisted. "She's not…" He glanced at Greg again. "Well, let's just say she's not my type."

"Then how close were you, for colleagues?" Brass pressed.

"Erika was sweet to me," Neil said. "We got along at work, but didn't see each other at all outside of it. But I can't say she was nice to _everyone_."

"What do you mean?" Brass asked.

For the first time in the conversation, Neil seemed ill at ease. "Erika was ambitious. I mean, can you blame her? She was way overqualified for a simple columnist's job. She may have… usurped a few stories from some of our headliners. To get her foot in the door. But that's just the business."

"Did she ever scoop you?" Brass asked.

Neil shrugged. "She never had to. I'd throw a story her way every so often, if I didn't have time to cover it."

"Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Cooper." Brass nodded at Nick and Greg and moved to the next desk. Nick followed immediately, and Greg was about to do the same when Neil caught his arm and he turned.

"I'm sorry," said Neil with a broad grin. "Do you have a number I can call? In case I… well, you know, remember something about Erika?"

Greg put on a doubtful expression. "You don't seem too upset that your friend is dead, Mr. Cooper."

Neil's smile turned slightly sad. "The thing is, Erika was only nice to me because I was nice to her. Everyone in this business is a cutthroat liar, that's just how it is."

Greg chewed on his lip and cocked his head to the side. "And are you a cutthroat liar?"

He blushed, but just slightly. "Me? I kill with kindness." He took a step closer to Greg and cocked his eyebrows. "So about that number…"

"Listen," said Greg, unable to keep the smile from his lips now, even though he was trying to be serious. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"Oh, I would hope that you do," Neil replied.

"And I'm flattered," Greg said. "But I—"

Neil's face fell. "Oh," he said, cutting Greg off and taking a step backward. He was suddenly flustered as he went around his desk and looked at the papers on it. "I'm sorry, I was too forward." He refused to look at Greg at all, now. "I usually have a great instinct when it comes to this sort of thing, but I've never just… I'm not the kind of guy who generally just comes up and, you know, asks like that, but I thought…" He looked up again and then looked sharply away, as if it had been a mistake. "I mean, I saw you, and I just…"

"What?" Greg said, slightly confused.

"I hope I didn't offend you," Neil muttered, putting some of the papers in a drawer.

Greg reached out and covered Neil's hand with his, making Neil look up. "Believe me, I'm not offended," he insisted. "On the contrary. But I can't get involved with a witness in an ongoing investigation. It's a conflict of interests."

Neil blinked at him, and slowly, that classic, confident smile returned. "Oh… Oh!" He laughed. "Oh, so you're not… mad or anything?"

Greg pursed his lips, then turned the hand he held over and began to trace the lines in the skin with his index finger. And then, after a moment, he smiled. "Ah, I see…"

Neil was confused. "What do you see?"

Greg looked up. "You're not involved in what happened to Erika Swanson."

"My hand told you that?"

Greg ran his finger along the line that cut below the bases of his fingers. "This is the heart line," he explained to Neil. "Yours is deep and well defined."

"What does that mean?" Neil asked, almost breathless.

Greg let go of his hand and pushed a card face down on the desk towards Neil. "It means when we close the case… Call me."

And then he went to catch up with Nick and Brass, with Neil watching his retreating back.

When he reached them, Nick cast him a curious look. "What was that about?"

"Hm?" Greg asked. "Oh. He just wanted to know who to call if he remembers anything about Erika."

Nick smirked at him. "Oh, is that all?"

"What else would it be?" Greg snapped, almost defensively.

Nick shrugged, suddenly timid. "Funny he asked _you_ for the number," he said as they followed Brass out of the building.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Greg returned.

"Nothing…" Nick mumbled, slightly coldly. "Nothing, it just looked like he was…" He couldn't seem to bring himself to finish the sentence.

Greg tried to keep his cheeks from flushing red and kept his eyes on the door. "Yeah, I know," he said, laughing. "Funny, isn't it? No wonder Erika Swanson wasn't his type, right?"

Nick said nothing, apparently ill at ease with the conversation he had started himself. "Collected the prints sheets from HR while you two were chatting," he muttered. "All employees are required by the paper to be printed."

"Oh…" said Greg. "That saves us the messy process of printing everyone then, doesn't it?"

"Mm," Nick said simply, and climbed into the car, slamming the door on Greg, who stood there a moment, baffled, before walking around the car and getting in the passenger's side.

* * *

Greg received a phone call sometime later while he was watching TV in his apartment. He turned down the volume and looked at the caller ID. He didn't recognize the number so he answered with his full name.

"Greg Sanders."

"So I was wondering…" came a playful voice on the other end. "If you've found out who killed Erika Swanson yet. Concerned minds want to know."

Greg didn't need to ask the voice to identify himself. "Hello, Mr. Cooper," he said, reclining in his couch.

"Hello, Mr. Sanders," Neil mimicked. "You know, the funniest thing happened. I somehow ended up with two tickets to the movies this Friday, and wouldn't you know it, I don't have anyone to take me. What are you up to?"

Greg sighed. "Well, you know, we have narrowed down the suspect pool," he said.

"Fantastic," said Neil. "Was it our editor? He's a real douchebag."

"Is this for the paper, Mr. Cooper?" Greg said with a smirk. "Because I have to say that I'm not allowed to talk to the press at this point in the investigation."

"Am I in your pool of suspects?" Neil pressed, trying to sound casual but failing.

"Is there some reason you should be?"

"Will we stop returning questions with questions?"

"You have an alibi," Greg said, trying not to laugh. "You were in Boston when the murder took place."

"So… can I take you out now?" Neil pressed.

Greg knew that it was against protocol. "I don't want to risk it right now… Mr. Cooper."

"When are you going to stop with this 'Mr. Cooper' crap?" He paused. "Try a first name basis, maybe… Greg."

On the other end of the phone, Greg was beaming. "How about I call you when the case is closed, Mr.—"

"If you say Cooper, I swear to God I'll hang up this phone right now."

Greg choked back a chuckle. "Neil," he said, amused.

"Good," said Neil. "I guess that means you don't want me to hang up just yet."

And the truth was, Greg didn't. "You know… there's no rule against talking," he said, laying down on his couch and staring up at the ceiling. "Do you have any plans for the next hour or so?"

"For you, my night is wide open, babe," said Neil.

An hour was a poor estimate on Greg's part. Then again, he hadn't known at that point just how many things Neil had to say. Or how many questions Greg wanted to ask him.

* * *

Greg tried to focus on his breathing, and the feeling of the morphine flooding his veins. Every once in a while he would open his eyes to an empty room. Sometimes, there would be a doctor. Once, there was Grissom. Twice, he saw Sara, though the second time she was asleep, her head near his lap. Other faces flickered in and out of his memory, because he wasn't conscious enough to remember them.

The recovery was long, hard, but most of all, lonely. His friends had to work, after all. They couldn't be there all the time, as much as they tried. Catherine left him care packages of brownies and comic books, which made Greg smile. Nick came every night and asked how his bruises were healing only once before changing the subject, as if he refused to dwell on Greg's infirmities.

And then, towards the end of it all, when he was about to be discharged, he saw Neil in the doorway, his face very pale, his expression grim. But he held a bouquet of calla lilies which he placed in a nearby empty vase by the window.

"Those are the flowers of death, you know," Greg pointed out, his voice scratchy and dry.

Neil nodded. "But they're prettier than yellow roses."

"Are you trying to curse me or something?"

"What, because I brought lilies?" Neil put on an exaggerated expression of horror. And then, he smiled again. "I didn't have you pegged as the superstitious type anyway."

"What are you doing here, Neil?" Greg asked.

Neil's smile faded. "I heard you got hurt. I was… worried."

"We barely even know each other," Greg whispered, humiliation creeping up his spine as if Neil had seen him naked.

"I think we do," Neil said. "That night on the phone… that was the longest I'd spoken to anyone in years." He cast his eyes downward. "And… I know you solved the case. They arrested Erika's boyfriend."

Greg looked away. "I was going to call you…"

"Look, Greg," said Neil frankly. "If you're not interested, just come out and say so. It's the polite thing to do."

Greg turned to Neil, his eyes sincere. "No, really, I was going to call you. But lately, work's been crazy. There's this new serial killer, and he makes these tiny little crime scenes, and on top of that I just made level two like… right before I got my ass handed to me on a platter, and my friend Catherine, her dad just died and I—"

"Busy, I get it," Neil interrupted. But he forced a smile. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't come here to accuse you. I shouldn't have even mentioned it." He reached out and placed a tender hand on Greg's sore forearm. The touch was welcome and warm, and it made Greg relax a little. "I brought you something to make you feel better."

Greg was intrigued. "You mean other than the death lilies?"

Neil snorted and reached into his bag before he pulled out a Nintendo DS and handed it to Greg. "When I was fourteen, I got my tonsils out. As a get-well present, my folks bought me a Gameboy. It had just come out, and they were going to wait until Christmas, but they saw how bored I was. For days, that's all I would do. Sit there in bed playing my Gameboy. Nintendo's gotten me through some pretty tough times. I thought it could help you."

Greg looked at the DS in his hands, then shook his head. "I can't accept this."

Neil grinned. "It's not a gift, it's a loan." He got to his feet and shouldered his bag. "Besides. Now, you'll have to call me, right?"

He cast Greg a wink, and then he was gone.

* * *

Greg rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling of his bedroom with a dopey grin on his face as he breathed deeply. There was a rustling of sheets, and he felt soft, downy hair against his shoulder as playful fingers began to trace the lines in his sweaty chest. Greg leaned forward and kissed the head of blond hair that rested beneath him, closing his eyes as he melted further into the bed, completely at ease.

"You're wilder than I expected, Tiger," Neil breathed, and Greg didn't need to see him anymore to know that he was smiling.

Greg said nothing. He often found it difficult to form words in the post-coital haze that enveloped his mind. So he simply said, "Mm…" and wrapped his arm around Neil's shoulders.

The blond man began kissing a line down towards Greg's naval, which made the CSI giggle.

"That tickles," he said.

Playfully, Neil exhaled into Greg's bellybutton, making the latter laugh out loud. He gripped the journalist by the shoulders and flipped him onto his back, looking down into his ice-blue eyes, ready to devour him all over again. And for a moment, they both thought that he would, but instead, Greg settled for a quiet, gentle kiss, far from ferocious, which Neil returned, his hand reaching up and resting on the side of Greg's cheek.

Greg pulled away, then collapsed on the bed beside Neil again, burying his face in the nape of the journalist's neck. "Tell me again all the places you've been…" he whispered, his breath dancing across his lover's collar bone.

"Mm, Morocco," Neil began, recalling the memory fondly. "Bangladesh… Sri Lanka… Tibet…"

"Tell me about Tibet," said Greg.

"I was doing a piece on the Chinese Occupation," Neil explained.

"What was it like there?"

"Cold…" Neil said, shivering at the memory. "But the landscape was just awe-inspiring. The mountains shot up into the crystal sky, and the clouds hovered around them like mists. The air was so crisp, and the people were so generous…"

"Sounds great," Greg sighed. "Maybe we should go sometime."

"You would prefer Sri Lanka," said Neil, nuzzling Greg's hair. "The beaches, the sweet, clean moist air, and the rainforests with all of the spices, oh my god, I don't think I've ever seen so many spices in one garden before. And they have this dessert, it's yak's milk yoghurt and honey—"

"Sounds gross," Greg interjected.

"No, it's incredible." He paused, then he twirled a strand of Greg's hair around his finger. "Maybe one day, I'll take you around the world."

"Oh, I'd love that…" Greg confessed, closing his eyes and picturing the Himalayas and the Sri Lankan rainforests.

"Paris, Rome, Athens, Cairo, and Timbuktu…" Neil said reverently, as if they were holy words. "I'll take you anywhere, Greg." His hand meandered across Greg's back. "Do you remember when we first met, and you read my palm?"

"Mm…" Greg intoned.

"What else did it say?"

Greg turned onto his side and shrugged, then smiled. "I'd have to see it again," he said.

Obediently, Neil showed him his palm and Greg traced the lines he found there, tilting his head to the side. "You have a big heart," he said after a moment.

"Really?" Neil asked, looking at his palm and trying to see what Greg could see. "See, I thought when you said that before, it was just some sort of pick-up line."

"Says it right here," Greg said, pointing out a deep line in his palm. "Strong and intact, not a break in it. You give your heart and you give it fully. And so far, it has served you well."

Neil grinned. "I'll say."

Greg glanced up at Neil and rolled his eyes before his gaze returned to the palm he held. "You're stubborn," Greg said. He looked up at Neil again. "Which I could have guessed by the way you kept pursuing me."

"Is there a problem with being a little head-strong?" Neil returned. "I'm a journalist, I have to be to get my story."

Greg looked back at the palm. "This is your head line," he said, tracing the crease in his palm. "See how it doesn't connect with your life-line? That means you do things spontaneously, without thinking about it."

"Like flirting with you?" Neil suggested.

Greg couldn't help but grin. "It means you're adventurous. Your life isn't bound by caution. That's a good thing."

"Well, I do play a lot of _Legend of Zelda_," Neil confessed.

Greg rolled his eyes again. His finger traced the last of the three main lines. "And this… is your life line."

Neil hit him playfully. "_You're_ my lifeline."

"Don't be corny," Greg threw back as he examined the line of Neil's hand. He frowned. "That's peculiar…"

"What?" Neil asked, suddenly nervous. "What's it say?"

Greg looked up with a mysterious smirk. His fingers wrapped around Neil's hand and he tugged, pulling the journalist to him where he claimed his lips, lingering there a moment before moving to Neil's ear. "It's unmarked, your life line. You're going to have a long and uneventful life."

"See, now I know you're full of shit," said Neil pushing Greg away teasingly. "I had malaria when I was eight."

"Well there may have been a few _tiny_ marks," Greg admitted, with a shrug. "Wait, you had malaria?"

"My parents were with Doctors Without Borders in Ghana," Neil explained. "I recovered, but my mother says my brain will never be the same."

"Ah, so that's why you're so weird," Greg concluded.

Neil fell back on the bed, making the mattress shake as he looked up at Greg without a word, just a quiet, smug smile. It made Greg nervous.

"What?" he said after he couldn't take the staring anymore.

"I think I want to race you," said Neil.

Greg laughed. "Well at least let me put on some pants first."

"You don't need pants," said Neil, deadly serious.

"A naked race?" Greg asked, intrigued. "You really _are_ spontaneous, aren't you?"

"Yes, a naked race," Neil said, throwing the sheets off to prove his point. He got out of the bed, and then Greg was suddenly anxious.

"You're not serious…" he began, forcing a laugh.

But Neil stopped in front of the TV by the bed and turned it on before flipping the switch of some ancient consol. The words MARIO KART rotated on the screen and Greg burst out laughing.

"Oh, I get it," he said as Neil tossed him a control. "A naked go-kart race."

Neil nodded. "Mm hm. And I'm gonna kick your ass."

Greg smirked. "Bring it, naked boy."

* * *

"She's gone…" Greg was saying into the phone, leaning against the locker. "There's no point, she's just _gone_…"

"Can't be gone," Neil's soothing voice said on the other end. "If she were gone, you would have given up by now."

"I want to…" Greg said, shaking his head. "I want to, I believe it, she's dead, I know it… Does that make me a bad person?"

"It ain't over 'til it's over," Neil said seriously. "You know how it goes, Greg. You have to wait to hear the fat lady. Have any fat ladies been singing?"

"Nobody's been singing…" Greg said absently. "Not since she was taken from us."

Neil sighed. "You have to think of something. I know that brain of yours, Greg. You have that little mini crime scene, right? Maybe there's something—"

"There is _nothing there_, Neil!" Greg screamed into the phone. "Grissom would have seen it. Grissom knows… he knows everything, and if he can't figure this out, then… then she must be dead. Because in a world where Grissom doesn't know what to do… Hell has frozen over, Neil, and we're caught in the blizzard."

"And your kidnapper's not talking?"

"Not a sound."

"There's more that you can do," Neil assured him. "There's always more that you can do, something you haven't seen yet, you just have to keep working the case, Greg."

"That's the thing about evidence, Neil," Greg said quietly. "Sometimes it just isn't there."

"No, it's _always there_, Greg," Neil insisted. "It's just like when I'm working on an exposé. Sometimes, there are things that people don't want to be found, Greg, but if you keep digging, if you press hard enough, then you will _find them_. Have you extensively searched your kidnapper's apartment?"

"Nick is there now," Greg breathed.

"OK, Greg, then listen to me," Neil demanded.

"Neil, I can't, we just aren't good enough to find her…"

"No, Greg, _listen to me_," Neil hissed. "Your friend is alive. From the things you've said about her, I can tell that she's a fighter. And from what you've told me about Nick, he doesn't miss anything. I can guarantee that he will find something at that apartment, and when he does, Greg, when he does, you have to promise me that you won't doubt it. You will get over this brief psychotic break of yours and you will go _back to work_ and you will _find her_. All of you will find her, and then everything will turn up roses, understand?"

Greg's breath was shaking. "But what if he doesn't find anything?"

"Have faith in your friends, Greg," Neil said. "Sometimes, you just have to believe."

"But I can't—" Greg jumped as the door to the locker room opened and he saw Catherine there, looking wild.

"Nick found out where she bought the Mustang," she said simply. "Brass just went to figure out where the guy towed it."

Greg simply stared at her. "So what now?"

Catherine pulled on her baseball cap. "Now… We look."

She dashed off, leaving Greg standing dumbstruck in the locker room.

"Did I hear that right?" Neil asked on the other end of the phone. "Have you found her?"

Greg sobered up instantly. His eyes narrowed and he straightened, and suddenly his breath wasn't shaken anymore. "No," he said. "But we will."

"That's my boy," said Neil, proudly. "That's my boy."

* * *

Greg stood on the doorstep and knocked on the door impatiently. Several times. Until finally, it opened.

At first, Neil smiled to see him, but that quickly disappeared when he saw the state Greg was in. Instead, he opened his arms wide and let Greg fall into them.

"What happened?" he whispered into Greg's ear as they held each other.

At first, Greg didn't say anything. His eyes were closed as he inhaled Neil's tartly sweet scent that reminded him of only the best kind of candy. The warmth that emanated from his lover's body was stronger than any blanket and he wrapped himself inside of it, just to chase away the sudden loneliness he felt at her absence.

"Sara's gone," he said, when he was comfortable enough.

"What do you mean gone?" Neil asked, the concern clear in his voice. "She hasn't been taken again, has she?"

Greg shook his head. "She just left. Not a word. And I tried, Neil. I tried to talk to her. But she hasn't been talking much since Natalie took her. And now she's left, and I can't help but feel a little bit… pissed off."

He felt Neil laugh. "She didn't abandon you, you know."

"Whatever she did, I know you never will," Greg returned, burying his face in Neil's neck.

He felt Neil's hand in his hair. "Greg… I don't know about you, but if I went through everything that she went through, I'd be really messed up. It wasn't about you. It was about her. You know that, right?"

"Not just about her," said Greg, shaking his head. "Her and Grissom. It's his fault too."

"No, it isn't," Neil returned. "It's nobody's fault. Not even Sara's. Maybe she just felt like leaving was the right thing for her right now."

Greg's grip on Neil tightened, his hands gripping his shirt. "Don't leave me like that," he whispered, terrified. "If you have to leave me, then at least say goodbye. At least talk to me. Don't just turn away and forget about me. Don't forget about me, Neil."

Neil struggled to put an inch or two of distance between them, because Greg did not want to let him go. Neil looked directly into his eyes. "Why would I leave you?" he asked. "You're…" He stopped, then seemed to rethink his words. He cupped Greg's face in his hands. "I would never leave you. Not voluntarily."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Greg said, his eyes serious, and strangely vulnerable. "Sometimes, things happen that we can't control. You might leave me. And that's OK. But just do me the courtesy of being honest about it."

Neil pushed Greg's hair away from his forehead. "Greg, I… I can't figure out how to explain this to you. But know that I don't want to leave you. I probably couldn't, even if I tried. You're my sun, Greg. My world revolves around you."

"And I rise and set on you…" He blushed. "Oh Jesus." He smiled. "Get me a cold beer, before I melt from all this sappiness."

"I'm a writer, Greg," Neil said after a quick peck on the lips. "I know all the clichés." He shrugged as he turned to get the beer Greg requested and added, as an afterthought, "Hell, I'm living one."

"Which one?" Greg asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Neil cast a look Greg's way and smirked. "The fairy tale. It's all ours, babe."

* * *

Greg waited on the doorstep, his knees drawn up to his chest, a cold beer already clutched in his hands. He looked up when he heard a car pull up and Neil got out. His lover stopped, then frowned as he looked at Greg, who didn't move.

"Hey, babe," Neil said, coming closer. "I thought you were in LA for your book…"

"Something's happened," Greg whispered, barely audible, but it was clear that Neil already knew that. The journalist crouched down in front of his boyfriend, and tried to look him in the eye.

"You gonna tell me what that was?"

Greg shook his head slowly, his eyes unseeing. "Can we just… do something else?"

Neil nodded slowly. "What do you want to do?"

Greg's eyes slowly came into focus. "Let's race."

Neil took his hand. "OK," he said, simply.

"No," Greg said, changing his mind, his grip on Neil's hand tightening. "No, let's just… fuck." He closed his eyes. "Just fuck until everything is gone."

Neil's brow furrowed, his eyes deeply disturbed. "That bad, huh?"

"I don't… deal with death very well," Greg said, blinking and allowing his eyes to focus on Neil again.

"But you work with it every day—"

"I know," Greg interrupted. "I know. But when it happens to me… Just because I know it, just because I always see it, doesn't mean that I know what to do when it happens to me."

Neil seemed to understand then, and his mouth closed, his face forming a grim but determined expression. He reached out and took the beer bottle from Greg, who let him have it, his fingers uncurling as if they were dead. "Babe. This is what we're going to do. We're going to fuck. Not have sex. Not make love. We'll fuck. Because you feel fucked. And then, when it's over, and your memories and self return to you slowly… Then we'll race." He tried to smile. "We'll have a naked race."

Greg looked at him, gratitude written as plainly across his face as if it were scrawled in permanent ink. He said nothing, he just nodded, and allowed Neil to pull him to his feet. He stumbled slightly, tipsy from the alcohol, but he stumbled into Neil, who caught him, who would always catch him, and he followed his boyfriend into the house where they locked the door and left all the bad things outside on the step.


	5. Between Rocks and Hard Places

**_Author's Note:_** I am both surprised and pleased that Neil is being so well-received. I want to apologize for that, since it seems to be so conflicting for some people, but I won't. Here's a little bit of Nick action, too. And yes, he does become a much more prominent figure later.

Chapter Four: Between Rocks and Hard Places

Greg closed his eyes and tried to pretend, if only for a moment, that he was holding Neil because he wanted to, because he needed the contact, that closeness, because they both did. He tried to pretend that he was holding Neil just for the sake of holding him. Tried to pretend that no one needed to be comforted, or soothed, or kept from falling off the bed in a fever dream.

He tried to pretend that Neil wasn't sick.

It almost worked.

But it was impossible for this delusion to last more than a few seconds, with the soaked sheets and the trembling form of the man who had supported Greg through so much was trying like a dying leaf to cling to a frigid branch. The heart that had been so strong and open and warm was now killing him, slowly, with every beat that took a millisecond longer. He was always just one beat away from the darkness, from leaving Greg alone to face the world by himself again. And Greg couldn't do that.

All of the things he had gotten through in the past two years, he had done with Neil by his side. Who would stand by his side now?

Greg closed his eyes even tighter and his grip on the trembling Neil constricted.

"Can't… don't want this… anymore…" Neil breathed.

"Just keep taking the pills, babe..." Greg whispered, remembering when Neil used to call him that. "Maybe, if we're lucky, we'll get a transplant…"

"Wait for someone to die so I can live," Neil panted, bitterly. "Selfish, isn't it?"

"People die every day," Greg whispered.

"I'm an organ donor," Neil said, his voice shaky. "A lot of good my tired old organs will do folks, huh?" He was biting back tears. Greg could hear it in his voice.

"Do you remember when I read your palm?" Greg asked, slowly.

He felt Neil laugh, or perhaps he was coughing, Greg couldn't tell the difference anymore. "That bullshit about strong hearts and long lives?"

Greg closed his eyes and entangled his hand in Neil's hair. "No," he said, stubbornly. "I saw what I saw. Nana Olaf taught me how to read, and she was always right. And I've always been right, too."

"Then you lied to me," said Neil simply. "You didn't see what you said you saw."

Greg pulled away from him to look at him. "Let me see your palm," he said.

And Neil gave it to him, looking down at the hand Greg held with sad eyes. Greg ran his fingertips over the familiar surface, trying to focus, trying to remember all of the things his grandmother had taught him about palmistry and the stories a person's hand could tell.

He ran the fingertip of his index finger across the lifeline, which was solid and swooping, but then he came to a break in it, so small that he hadn't seen it before. He used his thumbs to pull at the skin and saw that it was a definite break, surrounded by four smaller lines that made a square. And after the break, the line didn't continue all the way to Neil's wrist.

Greg traced the break in the line, his mouth partially open. Despite everything that doctors and tests had told him, he had still somehow been able to cling to the hope that maybe Neil could recover, through treatment and rest, and maybe, if he was very lucky, a transplant. But now that he saw it written in lines across skin, a cold wind rushed over him.

"I should have looked more closely…" Greg said quietly.

"Why?" Neil asked. "Would you have stayed, if you'd known?"

Greg looked up, horrified at the accusation, but he didn't deny it.

Neil yanked his hand away and cradled it against his chest. "It's stupid superstition, Greg. The lines in your palm are formed based on your own movement, how you use it. You make your own lines, Greg. You're telling me you actually believe this bullshit?"

"My nana was always right…" Greg whispered. "When you know someone who constantly gets it right, who constantly knows things that she shouldn't logically know, then what else can you do but believe?"

Neil sniffed and shook his head. "Believe in what you can see and hear and touch, Greg. Because that's all there is. You're a scientist. You should know that."

"There's something else, too," Greg returned, defensively. "There has to be. Humans only have five senses, but who says there are only five different things in the world to sense? We can't hear things that dogs can. Can't see things that insects can. There's so much beyond the world we know, Neil—"

"Stop it!" Neil finally yelled, slamming his palms against his ears. "Stop talking like that, it's _not helping_! I'm _dying,_ Greg, and I'm scared, but if there's one thing I can't stand, it's false hope. You keep telling me that I'll get better, but I know I won't. You say that there's something more in this world that we don't understand, but there isn't. This is all we have. This is all there is. My palm doesn't tell you anything about me or my life. Don't you see? _You made it all up_! You saw what you _wanted_ to see. Everything you told me about myself, you already knew. That I was stubborn, that I had a big heart, all of that was _you_, Greg, not _me_. So just _stop _it. Stop it, stop it, _stop it_…" He trailed off into sobs, his eyes closed as he brought his knees up to his chest.

And again, Greg suffered that disconnect. He saw his lover wailing, in pain, lost and afraid and all alone, and he knew that he should reach out to him, to comfort him, to be there for him, but he couldn't. He didn't feel anything at all. He knew then that Neil had been wrong when he'd called Greg a better person than he was. Because through everything that Greg had been through, Neil had been there. He had always been there, and now, when Neil needed him most, Greg could not be there for him.

And then, Neil moved. He crawled over to Greg and buried his face in Greg's chest. Greg knew that he shouldn't have needed to do that. Greg should have come to him. Greg wrapped his arms around Neil again and stroked his hair.

"I'm sorry…" Neil breathed.

"You don't have to apologize for anything," Greg replied.

"You're so patient with me," said Neil. "And I repay you by yelling at you… and throwing things at your head. Some boyfriend I am…"

Greg sighed as he continued to hold Neil, kissing the crown of his head.

"Greg?" Neil said after a moment.

"Mm?"

"I l-love…"

A phone started ringing and Greg inhaled sharply. He released his grip on Neil and rolled onto his back, reaching for the phone and answering it, his voice sounding strangely far away. "Sanders."

"Hey, Greg," came the dulcet tones of Catherine Willows. "I know you've been asking for overtime, so how about you come in a little early tonight? It's flu season, and everyone else is sick in bed, so I convinced Ecklie to let me call you in. What do you say?"

Greg glanced back at Neil, who was shivering in the bed, looking so small tangled in those sheets. Hospital bills, red letter warnings, and bank loans flashed before his vision. He pursed his lips, momentarily conflicted, but it didn't take long for him to make a decision.

"Thanks Catherine, you have no idea how helpful that will be. I'll be right in." He hung up.

"You have to go?" Neil's voice was painfully timid.

Greg rolled back onto his side to face him. "You know we need the money."

"I thought you got a loan…"

"I did, but I still have to make rent," Greg explained. "And, you know, eventually pay _off_ that loan."

"It's my fault… Greg, why do you do this for me?"

Greg was disturbed by the fact that he didn't have an answer. He knew that Neil was dying, regardless of whatever he tried to do to stop that. His efforts, and the efforts of modern medicine, were useless. He couldn't help Neil short of stealing someone else's heart and sewing it up inside his lover's chest. For a moment, he even considered it. Dr. Robbins had several cadavers he never checked post-autopsy.

Greg shook his head to clear it. No corpse's heart could replace the one he held so tightly in his hands.

"You deserve it," Greg said after a moment, trying not to tremble as he ran his hand through Neil's hair.

"I should have done more…" Neil panted. "With my life."

Greg leaned forward and gently brushed his lips against Neil's. "You've done plenty. You've been all over the world, you're a successful journalist—"

"You," Neil interrupted, "are the best thing that I've ever done."

Greg forced a smile. "Well, I am pretty good in bed," he admitted, tears welling in his eyes.

Neil laughed, but it was raspy and turned into a cough. "I miss laughing," Neil said, "and my chest hurts all the time… and I know that there's nothing left for me here, and yet I can't help but think of all the things…" He started coughing again, and Greg waited for him to finish. "You should go to Sri Lanka, Greg. Don't put it off. You'd enjoy it. Go with… go with someone you love."

"I want to go with you," Greg said, unable to keep the tremble in his voice. "You promised you wouldn't leave me…"

"Not without saying goodbye," Neil said with a sad smile.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital when I come home, OK?" Greg whispered. "There will always be someone with you there. They'll know how to make you more comfortable."

"I'm comfortable here. I like your place, the smells, the bed, and you… Will you hold me at the hospital?"

"Anytime, babe," Greg promised. "But right now, I have to go. You rest. Play… play your Nintendo. Relax."

"Wait to die…" Neil breathed.

Greg said nothing because a lump formed in his throat, successfully stopping him from saying anything. He kissed Neil's clammy forehead. "Sweet dreams, babe," he said, before he left for work.

* * *

Greg focused on the road, grinding his teeth and gripping the wheel tightly as Nick sulked in the front seat and stared out the window.

"Couldn't have sent Riley?"

"She's knee deep in another case right now," Nick mumbled. His nose was blocked, and it definitely showed in his voice.

"But Catherine has to be—"

"Doin' paperwork," Nick interrupted. "And sneezing all over it."

"Langston?" Greg suggested.

"Conference," Nick replied. "So they sent me."

"You could have said no…" Greg mumbled.

"Catherine said I was her last hope," Nick mumbled, right before he sneezed into his hands. "I wasn't even going to come _in_ today."

"Trust me, I wouldn't be here either, if I had the choice," Greg said. "We all have places we'd rather be, Nick."

"Yeah, but _you_ need the money," said Nick, and if Greg wasn't already annoyed, he would have been shocked at the Texan's blatant insensitivity. "I was just trying to be nice."

"Well, you're not being very nice now, are you?" Greg snapped as he pulled up to the scene, which was a body dump behind a night club. They both got out of the car and Nick folded his arms and popped the collar of his jacket to keep the wind out.

"I'm always nice," he muttered bitterly as Greg walked past him. "I wouldn't be here at all if Catherine hadn't guilted me into it."

"Well then that's guilt, isn't it?" Greg returned. "Not niceness."

Detective Vega approached them and let them know what was going on. "The call was made by the nightclub owner. One of her employees found the body in the back."

"Her?" Nick asked.

"What, you never heard of a woman owning a night club before?" Greg snapped, bitterly.

Nick frowned. "What's wrong with you today?"

"Nothing," Greg mumbled, then turned to Vega. "What else do you know?"

"Victim is a Jane Doe," Vega went on, slowly, glancing from Greg to Nick. "Her purse was gone, and so was any means of identification. By the looks of her clothes, I'd say she was at the club at some point in the evening…"

Vega kept talking but Greg's focus wavered. A flash of Neil, alone and in pain back at the apartment appeared before his eyes, and he couldn't listen to what Vega was saying. Still, he nodded, and kept up appearances, hoping that Nick was catching whatever he missed.

By the time Greg's focus returned, they were walking over towards a dumpster, and Nick was mumbling things Greg decided he'd rather not hear. And then, they arrived at the dumpster, and both of them stopped.

"Well, there she is," said Nick, nodding at the dumpster.

"There she is," Greg agreed.

"You gonna go get her?"

He blinked. "What, me?"

"I have seniority."

"Oh, no," said Greg, shaking his head. "No, I have done my fair share of dumpster dives in the past. I have already gone through the CSI hazing rituals, OK, I think it's your turn to smell like old pizza and sour milk for a change."

"I'm sick," Nick said, emphasizing this with a sniff as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"So, what, the world stops turning?" Greg returned, fury bubbling in his stomach. But he threw his hands into the air and pulled on his gloves. "Fine," he said, gritting his teeth. "I'll jump into the pile of garbage."

He seized the edge of the dumpster and hoisted himself up and over, landing with a crash on top of something soggy. He ignored it as he got a good look at the body and took a few pictures. A fly landed on her upper lip and crawled into one of her nostrils.

Greg diligently collected the evidence, finding trace of a clear liquid on her fingers. Looking closely at her lips, he noticed two distinct colors and made note of it, taking samples of each. Most of it was just routine, however. Another body, more evidence to collect, and they would bring her killer to justice.

But what about those who had their life stolen from them, but there was no one to blame? Who could Greg bring to justice and gain peace of mind when Neil died? What would it be like to lose him? Neil was the longest relationship Greg had ever maintained, and now something was taking him away from Greg. It would be a lot quieter, after he was gone. Greg wouldn't have to worry about anymore hospital bills, or paying for treatments. He wouldn't have to talk to Dr. Norton about alternative methods or transplants. He wouldn't be in and out of hospitals. He would be able to pay the rent.

"Greg!" Nick's voice screamed, jarring the younger man from his thoughts. "Are you done in there? You're taking forever!"

Greg exhaled sharply through his nose, drawing comfort from the fact that it was something that Nick couldn't do at the moment.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Greg snapped back, climbing over the rim of the dumpster. "What did David say about… all that stuff?"

"Can't determine COD here, but he said that it might be asphyxia," Nick explained. He went on to discuss other things he'd learned from the assistant coroner, as well as what he had found looking around the dumpster and at the perimeter, which wasn't very much. "So can we get back to the lab now, because I really need to lie down."

"Oh, suck it up," Greg grumbled, putting the evidence he'd collected into his kit.

"Hey, I know we're both in bad moods here, but I'm sick, OK, so why don't you just give me a break?" Nick said.

"You're not sick, you're just lazy," Greg returned, snapping his kit shut.

"I seem to recall _you_ moaning and groaning when Grissom called you in and _you_ were sick as a dog!"

"That was a long time ago."

"And that makes it different?" Nick sighed, clearly frustrated. "Don't be a hypocrite."

Greg rose quickly to his feet. "I am _not_ being a hypocrite!"

"My nose is clogged, I can barely make sure my 'M's' don't sound like 'B's'!" Nick cried. "I'm dizzy, my head hurts—I mean, what if this comes up in court? They could throw out the case on the grounds of I was too sick to see straight!"

"Well that obviously won't happen since _I'm_ the one that collected all the evidence!" Greg yelled. "You don't _know_ what being sick is, OK, so just suck it up."

He tried to walk past Nick, towards the car, where hopefully they could both calm down a little, but Nick caught his arm and he spun Greg around.

"What's the matter with you?" Nick asked, not angry anymore, his voice a quiet but serious sort of perplexed.

Greg yanked his arm furiously out of Nick's grip. "You can't be _that_ sick and feeble with a grip like that!" he snapped, before whipping around and marching off to the car.

"Greg!" Nick called at him, and when he didn't respond, Nick screamed louder. "_Greg!_"

"Bite me!" Greg returned before he slammed the car and turned the key in the ignition. For a moment, he actually considered driving off an abandoning Nick at the scene, but he still had enough good judgment left in him to know that was a bad idea.

He heard the trunk door open and slam and then Nick entered into the passenger's seat.

"You forgot your kit," Nick said, snidely.

Greg shook his head, not caring an ounce about what he'd forgotten (or tried to forget) at the crime scene. "There are times, Nick, when you just really drive me crazy," he said quietly.

"I get that," said Nick. "And ditto, by the way. You think you're always easy to work with?"

Greg drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and stared out of the windshield, stress clouding his mind, and he lost reality for a moment, in that way his mind liked to do, where everything outside of his head was hazy and foggy, but his mind was clear, and he was alone, and it was quiet.

Until Nick shattered the quiet with one word. "Greg?"

"What?!" Greg snapped, making Nick recoil.

Nick gestured out the windshield. "Are you going to drive, or what?"

There was no reason for it to happen at all. No trigger, or catalyst, or anything beyond Nick's simple question, but at that very moment, Greg's grip on the wheel tightened and his throat constricted and he couldn't breathe, and the next thing he knew, his forehead was leaning against the wheel, and he was shaking and gasping for air, and the leather of the steering wheel was moist.

It took him a very long time to realize that he was crying. But when he did realize this, he couldn't stop it. He tried to control it, like he tried to control everything else in the world around him but failed, miserably, and so instead allowed the cool tears to blaze trails down his hot cheeks and fall onto his knees. He was holding the steering wheel now as if for dear life, so tightly his knuckles were turning white, but he couldn't let go.

And then, Greg became aware of a strong, comforting hand on the back of his neck, gently squeezing, reassuringly. He tried to listen for any sound outside of his own sobbing, but heard nothing.

And then, his throat miraculously opened up again and he gasped for air. He was dehydrated, without a drop left in him to spare, and his head was pounding. As he rested there, his head still against the wheel, gulping down breaths of air, he felt as if an immense pressure had been lifted.

The hand on his neck slid to his shoulder, and he heard Nick lean across the gear shift until Greg could feel his breath against his arm.

"What was that?"

Still breathing heavily, Greg turned his head and lifted his eyes to meet Nick's. They were warm and chocolaty, a stark contrast from Neil's arctic blue ones. Rather than make him feel guilty, like Neil's gaze, Nick's eyes succeeded in soothing Greg, making him feel at ease, like he'd felt in the days before Vilmer's Disease slowly began to steal the man he loved.

But even just looking into Nick's eyes at such a vulnerable moment felt like the cruelest of infidelities, so he turned abruptly away and stared at his knees.

"I'm having… some difficulties…" he panted. It was the most honest answer he was willing to give.

"It's more than that," said Nick, sniffing.

Greg pushed the Texan away. "Get away from me. I can't afford to catch your cold."

To Greg's surprise, Nick mutely obeyed, pulling away from him and leaning back in his seat. And then, after a moment, "Maybe I should drive."

Greg leaned back in his chair and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "No, I'm fine now. Besides, you're… sick. You shouldn't drive. You might sneeze and get us in an accident." He tried to smile. He tried as hard as he could.

Again, Nick didn't protest. He simply turned to look out the window as Greg put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, trying to gather what was left of his dignity.

"It would… probably be best if you don't mention this," Greg said, trying to keep his grip on the wheel steady.

Nick said nothing in reply, and Greg momentarily wondered if the Texan was purposefully ignoring him. He sighed. He could deal with Nick's silence better than he could deal with his questions, but Greg did not like the quiet. He contemplated turning on the radio. His hand even twitched, ready to go in that direction. But for reasons unbeknownst to Greg, at least consciously, he did not turn it on.

"It's someone else, isn't it?" Nick said, breaking their long silence.

Greg's grip on the wheel tightened. "There's only you and me right now, Nick."

"I mean…" He shifted in his seat. "The money that you need, the insurance that won't cover you… it's for someone else."

Greg said nothing. He just tried to concentrate on his driving, and keeping his breathing normal. Nick turned away again and looked out the window, apparently giving up.

"His name is Neil," Greg said at last, surprising himself and making Nick turn to face him. "And yes. He's… very sick."

Nick seemed to contemplate his next question very carefully. "How do you… I mean, who is he? To you?"

Greg knew that the question would come eventually. He tried to think about the best way to put it. "A friend." But the word seemed to cheapen their relationship. "A… very best friend."

"You pay all your friends' hospital bills?"

"I would have paid yours," Greg said, without thinking. He realized what he'd said and hesitated before saying, "I mean, never mind."

"You would pay my hospital bills?" Nick asked, quietly.

Greg sighed. "If you couldn't. If it were you, and you couldn't… pay…"

"How bad is it?" Nick asked. "Your friend."

Greg turned into the lot. "We're here," he said, ignoring the question.

"Hey, Greg…" Nick began, awkwardly. "I'm sorry if I seemed… self-centered earlier. I didn't… I didn't know."

"I know you didn't," said Greg with a smile. "Just drop it."

Nick nodded. "OK," he said.

Everything they had spoken about they left behind in that car. Neither of them said another word about it for the rest of the night.

* * *

Greg came home to find Neil in the kitchen, leaning on the counter for support as he made himself a sandwich. Greg immediately rushed to his side, wrapping his arms around Neil from behind and the journalist fell backwards into him.

"What are you doing?" Greg asked. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

"I was hungry," Neil said, on the verge of being defensive. He leaned forward and away from Greg. "And you weren't here."

"I have to work…" Greg said, feeling guilty nonetheless. "You know that, babe."

Neil said nothing, but he did nod. He raised the knife and stuck it in the jar of mayonnaise. His hand was shaking so much the knife rattled against the glass like a bell, until Greg reached out and seized Neil's wrist in his own.

The journalist dropped the knife and hung his head, gripping the edge of the counter as he leaned on it.

"Let me do that for you," Greg said, trying to keep his voice low and patient, his hands sliding back to hold Neil's bony hips. He leaned forward and planted a soft, dry kiss on Neil's neck. "You go to bed and I'll bring it to you."

"I'm tired of lying in bed," Neil murmured, one of his hands covering one of Greg's on his hip.

"You're burning up, babe," said Greg. "Where are your pills?"

"Dunno," said Neil, and then after a beat, "Bathroom."

Greg's hands climbed up Neil's sides and made the journalist turn around. Greg's hands came up to cup his face, his thumbs running over the newly prominent cheek bones, his eyes taking in the strange new nose. He made a mental map of this new face, the one that did not belong to the man he knew, and he tried to love it. He tried very hard.

"Why don't you go to bed? I'll bring you a sandwich and your pills."

"I've been thinking," said Neil. "You should take me to the hospital today."

Greg was mildly surprise at his decision. "If that's what you want…"

"It is," said Neil. "Because it'll help you."

Greg felt the familiar guilt twist his stomach again. "It'll help _you_," he insisted.

"Maybe so, maybe not," Neil compromised. "But for sure, it will help you. You won't have to worry about leaving me alone anymore." He smiled, and for the moment, he looked like the old Neil, the one who'd had the bold tenacity to hit on Greg and pursue him during a murder investigation. The one who would stay up all night, with one arm looped around Greg's shoulders as he held a game controller and Greg watched, his head on Neil's lap, as the journalist shot at zombies or sliced up aliens or caught fairies in bottles.

Greg sighed and let his hands fall away from Neil's sunken face. "Well, at least take your pills first," he said, walking towards the bathroom. When he got there, he opened up the medicine cabinet and took out the pill bottle, noting that the "refill by" date was coming up soon. So he was very disturbed to find the bottle more than halfway full.

"Neil?" he called into the empty apartment. When he exited the bathroom and returned to the kitchen, he stopped in his tracks.

Neil was leaning against the cabinet doors, his head onto his side, and he was sweating much more than he had been before Greg left. Greg sprinted to him and kneeled down beside him, calling his name, forcing his head up again and Neil's eyes fluttered.

"I think… it's happening…" he breathed, with a strange smile on his face. "My chest… it hurts… different than… the normal hurting…"

Greg was horrified. "You haven't been taking the pills, have you?"

"Only made me… afraid of you…" Neil panted, closing his eyes again. "Made me throw up. Made me dream that you weren't real… Had to… stop… it…"

Greg exhaled, absolutely helpless. He gathered Neil up in his arms, holding him tightly, and swung his arms beneath his knees. "We need to get you to the hospital. Fast."


	6. In Bethlehem, Long Ago

**_Author's Note:_** A quick note to happyharper13 as I'm too lazy to private message her: You're asking me to explain my symbols? Shame on you! If you badly want to talk about Liver, I suppose we can do so over e-mail. All right, as for the rest of you, I hope this is a little bit of a reprieve for a while. You guys deserve it, and so does Greg. Sheesh, we put him through so much as fans, don't we? All for our own masochistic pleasure.

Chapter Five: In Bethlehem, Long Ago

Greg was trembling when he rose to his feet at the sight of Dr. Norton. He had been at the hospital all day waiting to hear news back about Neil, any news at all.

And when Dr. Norton told him, Greg was disturbed by the fact that he was disappointed.

"He had a mild heart attack," said Dr. Norton. "Don't let that term 'mild' fool you, though, it nearly killed him. I'm impressed it didn't, with the state of his heart."

Greg's jaw went slack. He had nothing to say, so he just nodded.

"He hasn't been taking his medication," Dr. Norton said, his eyes narrowing as if it were an accusation.

"I swear, I didn't know," Greg said, desperately. "Not until today."

"I thought we agreed that you would monitor his medication," Dr. Norton said. "I recommended hiring a nurse—"

"We can't afford it," said Greg with a helpless shrug.

"Well, you obviously can't take care of him all on your own."

"No," Greg admitted. "I can't."

Dr. Norton nodded, understandingly. "We can keep him here for a while, if you like. Make sure he keeps with the regimen."

"How's that transplant list looking?" Greg asked.

Dr. Norton smiled sadly. "A lot of people need hearts, Mr. Sanders, and sometimes there aren't enough to go around. Besides, even if we did get him a new heart, his lungs would never fully recover."

"So he'd be the same as any heavy smoker!" Greg protested. "Are you saying he's not higher up on the list because his heart isn't the only thing that's failing him?"

Dr. Norton's silence said everything.

"But he hasn't done anything wrong…" Greg said, his voice cracking. He closed his eyes and gathered his wits. "He's never smoked. He barely even drinks. He gets tipsy off of one _beer_ for Christ's sake. And he used to run, all the time. He hasn't done anything wrong…"

"We will make him comfortable," said Dr. Norton. "Treat him like royalty. I give you my word."

Greg looked around and ran a hand through his hair, unsure of what to do. "Dr. Norton… there is the matter of Neil's insurance. Now you're a nice guy, which is probably why you haven't brought it up, but I know that money matters."

"We'll keep him for as long as we're able," Dr. Norton said, which translated into _We'll keep him until the money runs out_.

Greg wrapped his arms around himself. The bank loan had covered the money he had needed for the experimental treatments, and even the regular medication, but he had used up everything. He would have to pay for the hospital stay out of his own pocket again, which was possible, but not preferable.

He nodded, understanding. "Well, thank you, Dr. Norton, for all your effort," he said. "I know that you've done everything that you can."

"The experimental treatment was working," said Dr. Norton.

This was the first Greg had heard this. "What?"

"We recently got the results back," Dr. Norton explained. "The granuloma count was down, and the vascular walls were drastically less inflamed. Do you remember a period when he was feeling better?"

Greg shook his head. The last few months were a blur of illness for him.

"If we put him back on the treatments—"

"How much will it cost?" Greg interjected, not really wanting to hear the answer.

Dr. Norton hesitated a moment. "Seventy-five thousand."

Greg felt dizzy. He could never put a price on Neil's life, but could he afford to save it?

"I think I need to… sit down…" Greg said.

"Of course," said Dr. Norton who led Greg to a nearby chair. "Now, I know the price is steep, but it could be subsidized. If this hospital sponsors the treatment we can reduce the costs by up to thirty percent—"

"Even so, where the hell am I supposed to get fifty thousand dollars then?" Greg broke in, angrily. "I've already taken as much money from my bank as they would give me, the insurance companies won't give me a dime, and I'm maxed out on overtime at my job!"

"There are organizations connected with the hospital that can help you," Dr. Norton assured him. "Nonprofit donations. That sort of thing."

"Charity," Greg deduced flatly.

"Compassion," said Dr. Norton with a shrug. "They exist for the sole purpose of helping people in your exact situation. I can give you their numbers, if you like."

Greg couldn't say no. Not if it would save Neil. He shrugged. "Yeah. Sure. Do it."

"I'll put Neil on the list to receive treatment," Dr. Norton said, turning around.

"Wait, Doc," Greg called, making him stop. "When can I see him?"

Dr. Norton smiled. "Right now, if you like. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

Dr. Norton walked off and Greg steeled his courage before entering into the hospital room. Neil was not looking at him. Instead, his head was turned towards the window. Greg clenched his hands into fists and approached Neil. He then put on a smile, the act he knew by heart, and took a chair by his lover's bed.

"Hey there, babe," he said, sweetly.

Neil turned to him, his face blank. "I really thought that was it," he said quietly.

"You're a survivor," Greg said, encouragingly.

Neil looked away again. "For now."

Greg let his mask falter for an instant before taking it up again. "I've talked to Dr. Norton. They're going to keep you here for a while. Take care of you."

"So you don't have to," Neil whispered, bitterly.

Greg nodded, not knowing what else to say, before he reached out and took Neil's hand. "I'll be here every day, after work. Every hour I can spare, I'll spend here with you. Promise."

Neil pulled his hand out of Greg's grip. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Greg."

"I mean it," Greg insisted, gripping the rail of Neil's hospital bed. "Please, babe, look at me."

Neil calmly obliged, but his gaze was cold. "You really shouldn't have stopped taking your pills. They think I haven't been taking care of you—"

"You haven't," Neil snapped, and then, just as Greg felt his smile falter again, Neil's expression morphed into one of deepest regret. "Oh Greg… I'm sorry… you know I don't mean that. But that's why I stopped taking those pills, Greg! They make me like this. They make me… hate you. Afraid of you. How can I be afraid of the person that I—" He seemed to stop himself, then looked sharply away from Greg. "The pills made me nauseous. Gave me headaches. Made me scared all the time. So I stopped, because I knew it didn't matter anyway. And I just wanted to spend my last days… with you."

Greg inhaled deeply and held his breath a moment before exhaling. "Babe… I'll be by your side every second I can be, I swear." He reached out to take Neil's hand, and this time his boyfriend didn't pull away.

Fresh tears were welling in Neil's eyes. "I don't want to die, Greg… I thought I'd accepted it, but I haven't." He struggled to breathe, and Greg hushed him, standing up and reaching over to stroke Neil's hair.

"Careful, you're recovering from a heart attack."

Neil tried to laugh, but ended up coughing instead. "You say that as if I didn't know."

Greg smiled, the closest to the real thing as he could muster. "The experimental treatment was working," he said quietly. "I've put you back on the list of recipients."

Neil's sunken eyes doubled in size. "What? Can we afford that?"

"You let me worry about that, OK, babe?" Greg said, his hand moving down through his hair to rest against Neil's bony cheek.

But the journalist shook his head. "No… you're broke enough as it is, I can't ask you to pay for that… I won't."

"If it could save your life, I'd pay ten times more," Greg insisted.

"And if it does, I won't ever be able to pay you back," Neil said. "And if it doesn't, I'll be gone, and you'll be in debt."

"Hush," Greg said, pressing his finger against Neil's lips. "If it saves your life, I won't need to be paid back. I'll have you."

"Until death do us part," Neil whispered, his breath rushing across the skin of Greg's finger.

Greg's hand trailed down form Neil's chin to clasp his hand, then looked up into Neil's eyes. "I'm going to do everything I can to fight for you," he said. "I'll get the money. I'm this close to signing a pornography contract."

"You know, those actors don't make as much as people think they do," said Neil.

Greg's eyebrows shot up. "I'm curious to know where you procured this little nugget of knowledge," he said, amused.

Neil gave a curt, tired laugh. "Greg, I really love—"

"And how did you know it was acting?" Greg interjected. "I might have been signing a contract to direct."

"You, directing porn? Now _there's_ a laugh," said Neil with a weary smile.

Greg's phone began to buzz and he looked at it. "It's work," he said.

"Do what you have to," Neil sighed sadly, turning to look out the window again.

Greg answered, sounding cheerful. "Hey, Catherine, what's up?"

"Greg, where are you? Your shift started an hour ago."

Greg's heart leapt into his throat and he looked at his watch. "Oh yeah…" he said. "Dammit, I'm sorry, Catherine, I just… lost track of time."

"Well, I wouldn't be so nervous generally," said Catherine, "but you've been begging me for extra work, so it just seemed odd that you wouldn't show up."

"Yeah, I know…" His eyes fell upon Neil's melancholy expression. "I was… with a friend."

"So I expect you'll be here soon?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way." He quietly closed his phone and slid it back into his pocket. "Neil?"

"Mm?" the journalist intoned, turning to look at Greg.

"I gotta go," he said with a sigh.

"Of course you do."

"I'll be back just as soon as I can!" Greg assured him. "And—I'll bring the Nintendo. So you can perfect your skills when I'm not here."

Neil's spirits seemed to lift, moderately. "And then we can race?"

Greg grinned. "And then we can race."

* * *

The days passed and Greg worked, and when he wasn't working he tried to stay awake with Neil. It left little time for sleep, but he stole what hours he could from work, successfully dodging Catherine's eyes by napping under Henry's desk when the lab tech went to lunch.

It was during one of these power naps that he was rudely awoken by a kind salutation.

"Merry Christmas!"

He jumped so high he hit his head on the top of the desk and groaned. Rubbing his eyes he looked out under the desk to see Henry's head hanging from the top of it, looking at him upside down with a wild grin on his face.

Greg groaned and moved his hand to the back of his head before crawling out. "OK, I get the point, I'll quit stealing your desk while you're out."

"Oh no, that's fine," said Henry with a shrug as Greg rose to his feet. "I think it's a great idea. You obviously need sleep, and I'm not using it between one and two, am I?"

Greg gave him a confused look as he continued to rub the back of his head. "Then what's with the rude awakening?" he asked with a yawn.

"I just wanted to give you your Christmas present," Henry said cheerfully.

Greg stretched. "Christmas?"

"Yeah," said Henry slowly.

Greg frowned, then panicked. "Today?!"

"No, silly, it just turned Christmas Eve," Henry explained. "It's been the 24th for about two hours, but since I'm taking tomorrow night off, I thought I'd get this to you now." He handed Greg a card in a red envelope, which the CSI examined suspiciously.

"Thanks, Henry, that's really… nice of you," said Greg. "You do this for everyone?"

Henry paused. "Um… sure, yeah, why not? Hey, listen, don't open that until Christmas though, understand? In the spirit and everything."

Greg chuckled, amused by the lab tech's antics. "Yeah, of course."

Henry beamed. "Thanks. Oh, and your clubbing lesbian tested positive for ecstasy." He reached across the table and handed Greg the papers.

"Lesbian?" Greg asked, cocking his eyebrow.

"I thought Nick told you," Henry said. "Hodges says that liquid you found on her fingers was vaginal fluids. And, um, not her own."

Greg's mouth formed into a tiny 'o.' "That would explain the dual-colored lipstick."

"That would be my guess too," said Henry, then quickly added, "Oh yeah, and did Hodges tell you about the chalk on your murder weapon in the stabbing case?"

Greg tried to recall. "Yeah. We heard it was chalk."

"A thought occurred to me," said Henry, leaning in, his eyes bulging, as if this were a big secret. "You know who uses chalk?" he said, in a stage whisper. "Rock climbers."

Greg nodded slowly, his jaw hanging open. "Uh huh. Thanks, Henry." He patted the lab tech on the shoulder before moving past him and out into the hall, where he was lucky enough to catch Nick passing by. He jogged to catch up.

"Hey," Greg called, making Nick slow but not stop. The younger man matched Nick's pace. "Why didn't you tell me our victim was a lesbian?"

"I thought you could focus more on the stabbing case," Nick replied, innocently.

"But we've been waiting for results on that," Greg replied.

"I know," said Nick, "but you've been… distracted lately. I thought I'd give you a little less pressure."

Greg stopped walking and Nick continued a moment before reluctantly stopping himself and turning to face Greg. "Stop it," Greg said simply, his eyes somber.

"Stop what?" Nick asked with a shrug.

"Handling me with kid gloves," Greg explained, closing the distance between them. "I don't need less pressure. I need more money."

"Maybe you need both," Nick suggested. "Look, Greg, something made you break down like that in the—"

"I thought you weren't going to bring that up again!" Greg hissed.

Nick dutifully bit his tongue. "OK. But you and I both know that it takes a lot to break you."

"How do you know that?" Greg asked, quietly.

Nick seemed suddenly flustered. "I know _you_, Greg. The things you face every day, and how you face them. Mostly, with a smile. If you want my opinion—"

"I don't," Greg hissed.

"—I think you've been smiling too long," Nick continued anyway.

"Am I smiling now?" Greg challenged.

But something made Nick laugh. "No, now you're trying to be intimidating, and failing miserably."

Greg snorted. "Kiss my ass."

There was a playful spark hiding in Nick's eyes when he said, "Gladly."

Greg managed a slightly confused smile. "OK, you win the Awkward Award. So keep me in the loop about this case, would you?"

"Relax, Greg," said Nick as they continued in their stroll down the hall. "You know, it just became Christmas Eve a few hours ago?"

"So I heard," Greg mumbled, rubbing the back of his head again.

"Well, I think it's time that you… had a little fun," Nick said, mysteriously.

Greg frowned right as they turned into the break room. "What do you mean a little—"

"Surprise!"

He nearly fell over backwards. The sudden flood of light into his pupils made him blink a few times to focus them and he saw Catherine, Riley, Langston, Brass and several lab techs there, all decked out in holiday colors. At second glance, he noticed that even Nick had managed to wear a green sweater with the collar of a red shirt poking out from beneath. He frowned at the clashing colors.

"I feel like I missed the memo…" he said, looking at all of his friends.

"You weren't sent the memo," said Riley, who looked like an overgrown elf with her green hat and matching dress. She pinned a sprig of holly to the lapel of Greg's blazer. "This was a surprise."

"Why?" Greg asked, smiling at Catherine, who was sporting a festive Santa hat. "You know I hate it when you don't send me memos."

Catherine shrugged. "Nick told us that you could use a little Christmas spirit," she said.

"I'm excited," said Riley, displaying it in her grin. "Growing up, we didn't celebrate Christmas. My parents found it to be a needless display of commercialism and materialism."

"You didn't celebrate Christmas at all?" Greg asked, gaping.

"Well, a _bit_, I guess," said Riley. "My dad liked the eggnog. And my mother liked the look of mistletoe. The combination of the two often sent me to bed early."

"You missed out on Christmas?!" Greg exclaimed. "I don't believe it."

"Well, it may be because my granddad's Jewish," Riley suggested with a smirk. Then it faded. "Hey, we didn't do Hanukah either. Now I feel double gypped."

Nick laughed and hit her on the shoulder, handing her some eggnog. "Here," he said. "Make like your father."

She raised the glass to her lips gleefully before saying, "Ah, sweet nectar of egg." Then she frowned suspiciously at Nick. "There isn't any rum in this, is there?"

"Not officially," said Nick with a wink, and she chortled and began to mingle.

Greg cast Nick an exasperated, but grateful expression. "You told them I needed Christmas spirit?"

"Hey, I know, what happened in the car, stays in the car. All I said was, I thought everyone around here could use a party. Catherine was the one who mentioned you specifically."

Greg smiled, oddly touched by the blonde's perceptiveness. But soon, that faded, and he was guilty again. "Catherine's noticed my performance has dropped…"

"What?" Nick exclaimed, on the verge of horror. "No, how did you get that from what I said? She's worried about how tired you are all the time. You've lost weight. Have you even noticed?"

"No," Greg confessed. He had been focusing on Neil's health more than his own as of late.

Nick nodded, wordlessly for a moment. There was a tense silence between them before the Texan decided to speak up. "So how is your friend doing?"

Greg was instantly on his guard. "I really don't want to talk about it, Nick," he said.

"I've been thinking…" said Nick slowly. "And I hope you don't mind me asking, but what about his family? Why aren't his parents helping out with the bills? Or a wife, or siblings, or something?"

"His parents died when he was nineteen," Greg said thoughtlessly. "Drowned when their boat sank off of the Ivory Coast. He's an only child…" And then, barely above a whisper, "I'm the only family he's got."

Nick didn't know what to say to this, though he seemed surprised that Greg was being so honest with him. "Hey, Greg, if you need any help with… anything at all..."

Greg's smile swiftly returned and he nodded. "You're awesome to offer," he said, sincerely. "But I'm getting along fine."

"Are you?"

"I think so," Greg said, with a shrug. He raked a hand through his hair. "Actually… since you asked… Neil is doing pretty well. He's on this new experimental treatment which involves a hell of a lot of physical therapy and medication and other things I don't really understand. But the point is, it's working. I really think things are going to be OK."

"And who's paying for that treatment?" Nick asked.

"That's too far, Nick," said Greg. He saw Wendy over Nick's shoulder and beamed at her. "Wendy!" he called as he approached. "How are things in the old lab?"

Greg could feel Nick's gaze linger on his back as he walked away.

* * *

Greg entered the room and Neil turned and greeted him with a fortified smile.

"Merry Christmas," Greg whispered as he closed the door behind him. He placed the tree he carried on the windowsill before turning to his lover, who moved over on the bed.

"Merry Christmas," Neil replied, beckoning Greg over. "Did you get me anything?"

Greg smirked before he produced a gift from the pocket of his blazer and waved it at Neil, whose blue eyes lit up like Christmas tree lights as he grinned stupidly and clapped his hands together.

"Gimme!"

Greg obliged and handed him the gift, which Neil enthusiastically unwrapped. He beamed at what he saw. "_James Bond_ and _Call of Duty_ for DS? Oh my God, come over here right now!" He slammed on the space in the bed next to him.

Greg chuckled. "You actually think I can fit on there with you?"

"The closer you are, the better," said Neil. "Try it."

Greg tested the bed by sitting on the edge of it, facing Neil. The journalist leaned forward and embraced him, their lips connecting comfortably, tenderly. Greg allowed himself to relish the soft kiss, the delicate grasp Neil held on his back. He smiled and broke the kiss and Neil laughed quietly.

"You're in a better mood," Greg said.

"I think you and the Doc were right about the treatments," Neil said. "I still feel like crap, but I don't have as many coughing fits or chest constrictions. Maybe there's a light at the end of this tunnel after all."

Greg leaned forward and kissed him again, feeling relaxed for the first time in months. Neil's hands roamed down Greg's back as his mouth moved up to Greg's ear. "I've missed you… this…"

The hand moved further down, over the pockets of Greg's jeans.

"Wait…" He pulled back, withdrawing his hands which held a red envelope. He waved it in front of Greg's face. "What's this?"

Greg plucked it from his cocky fingers. "A Christmas card a coworker gave me."

"Well aren't you going to open it?" Neil asked.

Greg shrugged. "I promised him I wouldn't, until Christmas."

"Oh come on," Neil cajoled. "It's Christmas Eve, and I don't see him around anywhere, do you? Besides, it's a frickin' card. Open it."

Greg rolled his eyes. "You, Mr. Cooper, are a terrible influence on me," he said as he opened the envelope.

"What did I tell you about calling me Mr. Cooper?" Neil said with a smirk.

Greg laughed, grateful for the endorphins as he pulled out the card. "Aw, Henry…" he said, upon seeing the dorky cartoon reindeer on the front. Greg rolled his eyes and opened the card. His smile ran away from his face.

"What's wrong?" Neil asked, reaching out and sliding an arm around Greg's waist.

Greg blinked, then frowned and closed the card, shoving it back in the envelope. "Nothing," he said, hastily.

"Let me see, then!" Neil cried.

Greg shook his head. "It's private," he said.

"Aw, did your coworker confess his love for you?" Neil asked, sounding amused.

"Ew, no," Greg said, shaking his head.

"You could tell me if he did, though," Neil assured him. "I'd think it was adorable. And, I mean, let's face it, who hasn't fallen in love with you?"

"Several people," Greg told him, stuffing the envelope in his back pocket. He took a deep breath and sighed, looking at Neil fondly as he shook his head. "God, what did I do to deserve someone as gorgeous as you?"

"Oh please," Neil said flatly. "I look like crap, don't give me that."

Greg smiled as he gave Neil another gentle kiss before pulling away again. "I think Shakespeare wrote a sonnet about you."

"Well, he was bi, and I used to be hot, so I guess it's possible."

"Nuh uh," said Greg, shaking his head. "It's that other one. Um…" He struggled to recall his high school English class. "Something about… my mistress's eyes being not like the sun."

Neil snorted. "Sonnet 130. You're such an asshole."

"No, no, no!" Greg protested. "How did that sonnet end again?"

Neil gave him a stern look before he complied. "And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare…" He smiled. "So I'm your mistress now, am I?"

Greg smirked playfully. "Does that bother you?"

Neil considered it for a minute. "No, not really." There was a beat, and then, "You're still an asshole."

They laughed for a moment, and then the laughter faded. Neil reached out and took Greg's hand. "I really couldn't have done any of this without you," he said. "You really have saved my life, Greg."

"Don't get soft on me now, Cooper," Greg scolded. "It's Christmas Eve, for God's sake."

"And there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

"Lay down, babe," Greg said, already seizing the remote for the bed.

"More horizontal," said Neil playfully as the bed moved beneath him. When he was flat on his back, he smirked. "I like it."

Greg pushed him over and laid down next to him, placing his head on the pillow and drawing his arms into his chest as Neil pulled the hospital blankets over both of them and wrapped his arms possessively around Greg.

"Thanks for this Christmas, Greg," Neil whispered. "I didn't think I'd see it this year."

"You'll see it next year, too, and just wait. It'll be even better than this."

"How can it be better than this?" Neil asked.

"Well, we won't be in a hospital for one," Greg said. "And I might be wearing something a little more festive."

"I'd prefer it if you weren't wearing anything at all," Neil replied with a smirk.

"I was thinking a nice red hat," Greg continued, thoughtfully. "And… that's it."

"Mm, I like that idea," Neil said, kissing Greg. "I can't wait."

* * *

Greg stayed there in that bed with Neil for a long time, happy, for once, to fall asleep in his arms rather than the other way around. But he woke up suddenly and inexplicably. He thought that a dream might have been to blame, but he couldn't remember it.

Carefully, so as not to disturb his lover, who was sleeping quietly for the first time in months, Greg slipped out of the bed and looked at his watch. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out Henry's Christmas card, which he carefully slipped out of the envelope and opened again.

_Dear Greg. I knew if I gave you a check, you would just tear it up. But then I realized the difficulty of shoving all those hundred dollar bills into a card, so please don't tear up the check, it would really hurt my feelings. Oh, and I won't take no for an answer. Consider it a Christmas gift. And no, you don't have to get me anything. Happy Holidays, Henry._

Greg smiled fondly as he thought of the lab tech then, suddenly guilty that he had been so dismissive of the man earlier when he was positing his theories about the murder. Greg ran his fingers over the check.

He looked up at the ceiling, folded the check inside the card and slid it back into the envelope. His eyes drifted to Neil's sleeping form and he sighed.


	7. In Sickness And In Health

**_Author's Note:_** Welcome to a fresh new week. Thanks for all your fabulous and fascinating reviews, I love reading them and hearing that this is appreciated so you reviewers are fantastic.

Chapter Six: In Sickness And In Health

Greg looked over his fan of cards at the pile, glad for the lack of murders in Las Vegas in the first few weeks of the New Year. He glanced at the cards laid out in front of him, then up at Nick.

"I thought you were going to visit your family this season," Greg said, drawing a new card before he discarded.

"They're up visiting my sister in Seattle," Nick muttered, watching Greg's move. "How's your friend?"

"Recovering nicely," Greg replied.

"And the money?"

"Not your problem."

Nick glanced at the discard pile before drawing a fresh card. "So you'd say you're doing well then?"

"I am," Greg admitted, and then he thought about it. "Yeah, I really am."

"And how's your girlfriend taking all this?" Nick asked, almost smugly.

"What girlfriend?" Greg asked, looking at Nick's discarded ace and contemplating taking it. And then, he realized what Nick was asking. "Oh. Oh yeah, um, we broke up."

"Really?" Nick asked. "But I thought you were serious."

"Mm, no, too many issues," Greg said, snatching Nick's card and replacing it with another one. "Couldn't work it out."

"I remember a fight a few months back," Nick murmured, leaning back in his chair.

"Hey, are we still getting paid to be here?" Greg asked, looking at the door of the break room. "Because that's the only reason I'm still around."

"He's not your friend, is he?" Nick asked, drawing a new card from the deck and the eying the discard pile regretfully.

"Who?" Greg asked. "Henry?"

"Henry?" Nick cried. "Who said anything about Henry?"

Greg slumped and pursed his lips. "He's been on my mind. I don't think I give him enough credit. Or, you know, attention. Or anything. Do you know when his birthday is?"

"No," Nick said simply. "Your turn."

"I know," Greg said, drawing a new card. "I think we should all pitch in and throw him a surprise party."

"I'm game for that," said Nick, waiting for Greg's fingers to leave the discard pile. He snatched up three cards. "Gin," he said, laying down what was left in his hands.

"Dammit, that's two aces in the hole," Greg complained, throwing down his cards which held a majority of face cards. "What's the score?"

"I lost track," Nick said, seemingly uninterested. He gathered up the cards.

"I haven't counted—"

"I'll give you that game," Nick said as he shuffled. He looked up at Greg. "Tell me about your friend Neil."

Without the distraction of the cards, Greg's full attention was now on Nick, and the words coming out of his mouth. "Why are you so interested in my friend Neil?"

Nick pursed his lips and looked down at the cards in his hand. "Greg…" he began slowly. "Friends don't pay for friends' hospital bills."

Greg was quiet, and exceptionally uncomfortable. "Does it matter?" he asked suddenly, staring at Nick and waiting for the Texan to look him in the eyes. "Does it really matter _that much_ to you what my relationship with Neil is?"

"Yes," said Nick, finally meeting Greg's eyes. "It does."

Greg's voice grew cold. "I thought you were better than that, Nick."

"Greg, I don't think you understand what I'm trying to—"

"I understand perfectly," said Greg, rising. "You think this kind of thing would matter to Catherine? Riley? Sara? Grissom? But it matters to you. I guess some people just can't overcome the lies they learn in their childhood—"

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" Nick hissed, suddenly on the defensive as he, too, leapt to his feet. "Greg, I'm only asking because—"

"Nick, just drop it," Greg begged. "Please. You're one of my…" He paused. "You're my best… friend… I don't want to change that. For anything."

Nick suddenly seemed very pale in the harsh florescent lights, and there was some sort of grave injury that marred his eyes, but he simply nodded. "You don't… want to change our friendship," he repeated, quietly.

"Not for anything, Nick," Greg said. "In fact… I really need you sometimes."

Nick was quiet a moment. "Greg, there's something I should tell you…"

"I'd really rather you didn't, Nick," Greg said. He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm going to go talk to Henry and see if I can stealthily figure out when his birthday is."

"That's fine!" Nick called as Greg sped out of the break room as if it were on fire. He fell back down to his chair and looked at the cards, still clutched in his hand. "I guess I'll just play a little solitaire for a while, then…"

* * *

"How you feeling today?" Greg asked with a grin as he entered into Neil's room after an uneventful shift.

Neil was lying flat in his bed and turned around to face Greg. "Today's not a good day."

"Night's always darkest before the dawn, right?" Greg said, pulling up a chair.

"Right," Neil agreed. "When do you think I can get out of here?"

"I was thinking I could take you home tonight," Greg said, reaching out and clasping Neil's hand in his.

Neil smiled but his eyes were tired. "Oh babe, you have no idea how much I'd love that."

"I just need to run it by Dr. Norton," said Greg. "But you seem to be improving, and it'll save us some cash."

"I was thinking about that," said Neil, "and I want you to know that I have contacts in high places, because of my job. If I asked for a loan, I could help—"

"How many times do I have to tell you, the money isn't important!" Greg said with a laugh. "You're the one that's important. I'd give anything to keep you here with me."

"And you've proven that," said Neil fondly. "Over and over again."

Greg reached out and stroked Neil's soft hair. "You let me worry about money now. When you're better, if it matters that much to you, then you can argue with me about it, but for now, let's just be happy that you're going to be OK."

There was a knock on the door as it opened and both men looked up to see Dr. Norton. "Mr. Sanders, I heard you were here. I was wondering if I could have a word?"

Greg nodded, and Neil squeezed his hand. "Don't forget to ask," he whispered, and Greg nodded to assure Neil that he would.

Once they were out in the hall, Dr. Norton closed the door quietly then gazed at Greg with a somber expression. "I am afraid that the treatment is no longer working," he said quietly.

Greg felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice over his head as fear trickled down over his body. "It's not… what?"

"This has been known to happen in about ten percent of patients so far," Dr. Norton continued. "Sometimes, the granulomas return, continuing to clog the bloodstream and inflame the vascular walls. You knew the risks involved when we first spoke about this course of treatment. As it's still in its testing phases, there was never any guarantee that it would work at all. What it has done is bought you some more time with Neil."

Greg had nothing left to say. There were no more options left. No more treatments, no transplants, no more money that he could spend to save a life. Neil would slip away and then everything would fall apart and Greg would be alone. He had feared it for so long that he was suddenly numb at the concept. As if none of it mattered at all.

"Mr. Sanders?" Dr. Norton prompted.

"Hm?" Greg said blinking.

"Would you like me to tell Neil?"

Greg's mouth was partly open as he shook his head. "I told him that he was dying before," he whispered. "I can tell him again. Just… give us a minute, would you?"

Like a zombie he made his way back towards Neil's door, an unpleasant sense of déjà vu shaking his bones. He thought of the mood swings, the nausea, the fevers, the nightmares… He thought of Neil wasting away into a skeleton with skin, thought of holding that skeleton and a feeling of disgust washed through him. He knew that in the end Neil would not be the man that he knew. He didn't think he could go through it all again.

"Greg?"

He looked up when Neil called his name and managed a wide smile. "Hey, babe," he said, quietly.

Neil blinked at him. "So can I go home today?"

Greg held his breath a moment, preparing himself to spill the ugly truth. "Yeah…" he said instead, with that same caring smile. "Yeah, babe, you can come home today."

Neil grinned gratefully. "Oh you are fabulous, thank you! I hate hospitals. Can't think of a worse place to die. Or get better, as the case may be."

Greg nodded, smile still in place. "I'm gonna take you home today, Neil, and things will be how they used to."

"Sex and naked races?" Neil chimed cheerily. "Because I found out both those things aren't allowed here. Don't ask me how I know that."

Greg laughed. "Of course. Sex and naked races and first person shooters."

"And pie," said Neil, hungrily. "Can we have pie?"

"Well, obviously!" Greg cried. "Peach, right?"

"Oh you know it…" Neil said, his eyes glazing over. "Sex, pie and video games. Can life get any sweeter?"

Greg pursed his lips when he felt his throat close up. He shook his head and coughed to open up his airways. "No," he confessed. "Nothing has been the same at home without you."

"But now I'm coming back," said Neil. "And things will be good again."

Greg drew closer to the bed, pushing back Neil's hair from his forehead as he leaned down and kissed him, deeply, painfully, quietly. When he pulled back Neil gasped for air.

"You haven't kissed me like that since—"

"I know," Greg interrupted, his hand sliding to rest against Neil's cheek. "Listen, babe… I'm going to just go home and get everything ready for you. Put the pie in the oven, set up the video games—"

"Put on a kinky costume, I get it," said Neil.

"Right," Greg said slowly. "So… you wait here. I'll come back to get you."

Neil looked at him with such trust in his eyes, Greg knew right then that he would burn in Hell. "Of course," he said. And then his smile broadened. "God, Greg… I love you so fuckin' much."

Greg's smile became more difficult to maintain. He tried to return the sentiment. It was the least he could do. But instead, he said, "I'll see you in a bit, OK?"

And then he turned around and ran out of that room and out of that hospital as fast as he could.

* * *

The second Greg had escaped that hospital and found the sanctuary of his car, he found that he could not stop shaking. He thought back to the things that he had said to Neil, the lies, the fake smiles and untruths. He hadn't told Neil that the treatments weren't working. He hadn't told Neil that he was still going to die, despite everything that they had done and everything they had hoped for.

He put his car in gear and pulled out of the space, half wondering if he would manage to get himself into an accident. A part of him almost wanted to, but not in a suicidal way. He needed to feel pain. Pain like Neil was feeling, because maybe then he could finally understand, maybe then he wouldn't be so scared, and maybe then he could have been a better boyfriend.

_I couldn't even say that I loved him_… Greg thought to himself.

He exited the parking lot and drove down the street, tears finally crawling out of the corners of his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. For a moment, he didn't know where he was going. But then, he knew what he had to do.

The whole drive, he couldn't get Neil's eyes out of his head. Icy blue and bright and accusing… Because Greg was the biggest traitor since Judas himself, worse than Brutus, worse than Cassius…

"Worse than Benedict Fucking Arnold," Greg growled, tightening his grip on the wheel.

He turned slightly onto his road, his mind now racing ahead, thinking of what he had to do next. He pulled up to the curb outside of his apartment and jogged inside and up the stairs a few floors until he was finally home. He fiddled with the keys in the door and threw it open, dashing inside to his room and pulling out a suitcase.

As he threw random articles of clothing into the open case, he saw the place where Neil's beloved and outdated Nintendo 64 had slept quietly on the dresser beside the TV. There was a patch where no dust dared to tread, and it made Greg think about how long that console had rested there.

He shook his head to clear it and continued to pack, running into his bathroom to collect the appropriate toiletries. He came back and dropped them on top of his clothes. His next stop was the kitchen, seizing some fruit and then some cookies from the cupboard to take with him, especially since he wasn't sure where he was going, and whether or not there would be food. He zipped them up in large plastic bags and shoved them into his suitcase as well. He did a sweep of his bedroom, looking for anything he might have missed, and his eyes fell on the framed photo on his bedside table.

There was a sharp pang in his heart and Greg lifted his hand and traced Neil's vibrant, healthy face. The journalist was in mid-laugh, as Greg had cruelly told a joke right before the camera snapped the photo. The smug look in Greg's eyes and the jubilant expression on Neil's face was too much for the CSI to bear and he put the picture face down on his dresser, seized his suitcase, and made his way back downstairs and out of the apartment. He tossed the suitcase into the trunk of his car before jumping back into the driver's seat and taking off at high speed, allowing his whims to guide him.

He silently prayed that he would end up at the place that was best for him. He wasn't sure where he was going, but he needed the time to think. What would Neil do, when he finally figured out that Greg wasn't coming to take him home? What would he say when Dr. Norton gave him the bad news about the treatments?

Would he ever forgive Greg for this selfish betrayal?

Greg drove and he drove, too panicked to think, until he realized he had no idea where he was anymore. Desert was broken by a handful of gas stations and all-night diners, and then, he came to a motel, the last one on the edge of the Nevada wilderness, and he pulled into the parking lot and checked in.

When he entered his room, he crawled under the covers of the bed and stayed there for a long time.


	8. In A Moment of Need

**_Author's Note:_** After Monday's short chapter, here's a meatier one for you. Once again, thanks to all of your for reading and reviewing. I really, really appreciate the feedback (all kinds).

Chapter Seven: In A Moment of Need

Nick was just arriving at work when Catherine poked her head into the locker room and smiled at him in greeting. "Hey, Nick, how's it going?"

"Can't complain," Nick replied, hanging up his jacket in his locker. "Tell me you have a new case for me. We just put away that club owner for murdering her girlfriend, and we don't have any more leads on the stabbing case."

"Got your basic B&E if that interests you," Catherine replied. "And let Ray tag along, would you?"

Nick smiled. "Not a problem."

"Also, have you seen Greg?"

Nick's smile dimmed. "Greg? Not since Friday. Why?"

"He hasn't shown up yet," Catherine said. "I've tried his cell, but he's not answering."

"He'll show up," said Nick confidently, if a little bitterly.

"You sound upset."

Nick hated how astute Catherine was sometimes. "Just… a little."

"You and Greg aren't having a little fight now, are you?" Catherine asked in a warning tone. "Because if you are, I suggest getting over it. You're still working that stabbing case together."

"No, we're not fighting," Nick said as he closed his locker.

"Well, obviously _something _is up," said Catherine, taking a seat on the bunch. "Wanna talk?"

"The only person I want to talk to about this is Greg," said Nick, leaning against his locker. "Unfortunately, he refuses to listen."

Catherine offered him a fond smile. "Make him listen."

Nick watched her a moment and shrugged it off. "Yeah, maybe one day I will."

Catherine raised her eyebrows, suggestively. "Why not today?"

Nick shook his head. "He's not ready to hear it today."

Catherine smiled at him reassuringly. "Ray is waiting for you in the lobby."

"I'm on my way," said Nick.

* * *

When Nick and Langston returned to the lab, they passed Catherine's office and Nick told Langston to go on ahead. He saw Catherine at her desk with her head in her hands, looking frazzled and confused. Nick knocked on the door and asked if she was OK.

"I don't know what's going on…" she said, shaking her head. "I've left him messages both on his home phone and his cell, and he hasn't returned them."

"Who?" Nick asked.

She blinked at him. "Greg," she explained.

"Maybe he's sick," Nick suggested. "Passed out somewhere and can't hear his phone. Or maybe he's with his friend at the hospital and just forgot his phone at home."

Catherine shook her head. "He was begging me for any cent he could squeeze out of his job," she explained. "He wouldn't miss work like this unless something was wrong."

"Maybe something happened with his friend," Nick guessed.

"I thought you said he was doing better," said Catherine, suddenly very worried.

"Greg could have just told me that to get me to stop asking," said Nick.

She smiled, sadly. "He would probably do that, too."

"Look, if you like, I can stop off at his apartment and see if he's there," Nick offered.

"He may not want to talk to anyone, if something's happened to his friend," said Catherine. "Then again, he may just be too scared to ask. Yeah, I think you should go. Tell him hi for me, would you? For all of us?"

"Will do," Nick assured her, and walked away, trying to think of any reason that Greg would miss work that didn't end in tragedy.

* * *

Nick wasn't all too concerned, until he reached Greg's apartment and found that the door wasn't closed properly. He easily jimmied it open and walked warily into the place, one hand hovering cautiously over where his gun rested in his holster.

"Greg?" he called out, tentatively.

The apartment was a mess. Clothes were scattered all over the floor, and the curtains were pulled half-way open in a manner that looked as if they couldn't decide whether they wanted to be open or closed. Despite the mess, it didn't look like there had been any sort of struggle, which Nick decided to interpret as good news. The kitchen was more or less in order. There was a box of Ziplock bags left out on the counter, as well as a fruit bowl turned on its side. He made his way into the bedroom and found sheets on the floor, and the bed itself was unmade. There was a crease in the fitted sheet that suggested something square and heavy had once been there.

When he moved to the bathroom, Nick began to understand. The mirror door of the medicine cabinet was flung open, and Greg's toothbrush was missing, among other things. Nick looked back into the bedroom and scanned the room for a note or any sign that Greg might have left to alert his friends about where he had gone.

_Then again, maybe he learned from Sara and just… left_, Nick thought, resentfully.

His keen eyes found a frame on the bedside table that was face down against the tabletop. He immediately made his way to it and picked it up, examining the photo behind the glass. The picture displayed Greg, his arms around another man's waist, a haughty but happy grin on his face as the man in his arms tossed back his head and emitted a barking laugh. The other man was vaguely familiar, but Nick couldn't for the life of him place where he'd seen the face before.

Nick held on to the photo for a long time and stared at it, his heart beating just a fraction faster than normal. Greg's words had always implied what his relationship to Neil was, but now Nick had something much more solid than Greg's words in his hands. Evidence. His fingers touched the glass where Greg's face was depicted and he sighed, regret swelling in his chest.

He should have spoken up years ago. But he'd held his peace, because friendship always came first. And for a long time, Nick hadn't wanted to change or compromise that. Not for anything. And neither, it seemed, did Greg. But Nick knew that that wasn't the only reason he had kept silent all these years. He had been afraid of Greg's reaction. And now that he knew that his instincts had been right all along, he couldn't say a word. Not while Greg's lover was dying.

Nick kept the photo in his hands and entered the living room where he saw Greg's phone in the charger. There were several messages on it. Nick wondered why Greg would leave his phone behind if he'd planned on going somewhere. There were only two reasons that he would have done that. He could have been in such a hurry to leave that he'd forgotten he was charging his phone. Or, he could have left it behind on purpose, so no one would be able to contact him.

Nick lifted the phone to his ear and accessed the voicemail. The very first message was delivered by a scratchy voice that didn't identify itself.

"Greg? Where are you? You said that it wouldn't take you long, and I'm waiting. The sooner I can get out of here, the better, so hurry up."

The next message was the same person, and this time the voice sounded smaller, and more afraid. "Greg? Babe? Why haven't you called me back? It's been several hours now and I don't know where you are. I talked to Dr. Norton. He told me everything. Said you knew. Said you were going to tell me. You didn't tell me. Babe, why didn't you tell me? Where are you? I really need you right now, OK? I want you to tell me about the dog. Call me back. Please, babe, I need you."

The same person left the third message on Greg's phone, and this time it was just tired and hopeless. "I get it now," he said, flatly. "I know why you're not here. I know that you're not coming. I thought you should know, I don't blame you. I would have left a long time ago, if I were you. But I love you, babe. Still do. Always will."

Nick held the phone slightly away from his ear, feeling like he'd just eavesdropped on a highly personal conversation. The fourth message, as it turned out, was left by Catherine asking why Greg wasn't at work. There were no more messages from Neil.

Nick carefully hung up and looked at the phone in his hand. He was at a loss for what to do next. He had no idea where Greg had gone, or how to reach him, and he felt like nothing else in the apartment could give him any more clues. If he went back to the lab and told Catherine that Greg had fled, she would worry about him, maybe send a search party, but Nick had a feeling that wasn't what Greg wanted at the moment.

And then, suddenly, the phone in his hand began to ring, making Nick jump. He looked at the flashing caller ID, which read "Norton."

Cautiously, Nick held the phone to his ear again and said, "Hello?"

"Mr. Sanders, I'm glad I could reach you," came the voice of an older man on the other end. "This is Dr. Norton. Neil has informed me that you haven't been answering your phone as of late."

"Actually, Mr. Sanders is… incapacitated," Nick improvised. "My name is Nick Stokes. I'm his friend."

There was a pause on the other end. "I see. Well, do you know when I will be able to speak with Mr. Sanders?"

Nick shook his head, and then suddenly remembered the doctor couldn't see him. "Unfortunately, no. I have no idea when he will be available again." He hesitated. "You can leave a message with me, though, if you like."

"Are you a member of Neil Cooper's family?" Dr. Norton asked.

"No," Nick admitted. "But I am a member of Greg's."

"I am afraid I cannot discuss this information with you," said Dr. Norton. "Greg Sanders is listed as Neil's emergency contact and primary care giver. I cannot give this information to anyone outside of Neil's family other than Mr. Sanders."

Nick nodded, understanding. "Is it visiting hours right now?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact it is," Dr. Norton said. "Are you planning to stop by?"

"Maybe," Nick mused.

"Is Neil expecting you?"

"No," Nick said, "but tell him that a friend is coming to see him."

"He'll like that," said Dr. Norton, sounding please. "Good day, Mr. Stokes."

* * *

He had asked for the room number at the front desk, and now he stood outside of the closed door to the room which would lead him to Greg's lover. He had the strange feeling that he shouldn't be there. As if coming here were, in some ways, a violation of the trust he shared with Greg. At the same time, he had to meet the man that Greg had run away from. He needed to know…

He knocked on the door first, waited a moment, and then opened it, looking in cautiously. The man on the bed was laying down, his back facing the door, and he did not move when he heard Nick enter.

"I didn't think you'd come back," he said quietly. "I thought you'd left for good."

Nick froze and searched for something kind to say. "I'm not Greg," was all he could think of.

The man in the bed stiffened, then slowly turned to look over his shoulder. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken. There was an unnatural dip in his nose and his lips were gray and chapped.

"Then who are you?"

Nick held his breath for a second. "A friend."

Neil rolled over in the bed and winced. "Whose friend?"

"Greg's," Nick said. "And… yours. If you'll let me."

Neil's eyes didn't leave Nick. They were sharp and confused. "Where is he?" he asked, choking on his sob. "You have to know where he is."

Nick shook his head, truly regretting that he didn't. "I'm sorry, Neil."

"He didn't send you here, did he?" Neil asked, as if he already knew the answer.

"No, he didn't," Nick replied. He took the vacant seat by Neil's bed. "My name is Nick. I work with Greg. He didn't show up today."

Neil gave a curt laugh. "Not hiding in his work anymore? Wow, he really is gone."

Nick could hear the quiet resentment in Neil's tone. He realized that the message Neil had left on Greg's phone had been to sooth Greg's conscience. Neil really did blame Greg. For everything.

"He wanted… to stay," Nick told him, at a loss for anything else to say. "He did, but sometimes…"

"You just have to run," Neil said, his eyes glazing over. "I'm dying, you know."

Nick nodded. "So I've heard."

"Greg sees death every day," Neil breathed, then smiled. "So do you, I bet. Yet he still couldn't stay and watch me die."

"It's much more difficult dealing with the dying than with the dead," Nick explained.

"I guess so…" Neil whispered, then started coughing. Nick leapt to his feet when he saw blood on Neil's hands, but the blond held up a hand, signaling him to stop. When he calmed down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he somehow managed a smile.

"Happens a lot now," he said. "Back to my old treatments. No point in paying for something that isn't working."

"How did you and Greg meet?" Nick asked.

Neil smiled, fondly. "Years ago," he said. "Two… no, three… no, two years ago now, I think. He was… on a case, and I was a witness. I work for the_ Las Vegas Sun_, or at least, I used to. My coworker had been killed…" He squinted at Nick. "Wait a minute," he said. "I remember you now. You were there. You're _Nick_." He closed his eyes and smiled. "Oh yes, I remember you now."

"Am I that memorable?" Nick asked, unable to contain a smile.

"He talks about you," Neil said, his eyes half-lidded as if he were about to fall asleep. "All the time. All about how smart you are and talented and..." His smile grew. "Ruggedly handsome…"

"He said I was handsome?" Nick asked, skeptically.

Neil swallowed and blinked. "No, but I just did." He shook his head. "No, he never mentioned that. What he did mention was that he never felt like he could ever be as good as you. Little Greg in big Nick's shadow…"

"He hated me for that, did he?" Nick asked.

"Interestingly, no," said Neil, raising his eyebrows. "It just made him try harder to be more like you. Always trying to be just… like… you…" Neil yawned, then blinked rapidly. "Sorry. New meds make me sleepy. You don't have to stay here, with me, if I fall asleep."

Nick moved his chair closer to Neil's bed. "I don't have anywhere else to be tonight." It wasn't entirely true, but he knew that Catherine would understand.

Neil reached out a hand and took Nick's, turning it over to see his palm and tracing the lines there. "Greg thought he could tell me my future by looking at my hands…"

"Ah, yeah," Nick said. "Nana Olaf teach him that?"

"Well, it certainly wasn't Papa Olaf, who kept telling him to cut it out," Neil said with a knowing smirk.

They shared a quiet chuckle, each of them thinking of Greg. "What did he tell you?" Nick asked.

Neil said nothing as his smile faded, his focus completely on Nick's hands. "I can tell a lot about people from their hands, too," he said. "Not the way Greg does, though…" He frowned. "Can't see anything in you, though. I guess I'm not as talented as I thought."

He pulled his hand away from Nick and turned over in the bed. Nick sat there in awkward silence, trying to think of another conversation starter, when he heard Neil say, quietly, "If you loved someone, Nick, could you leave them when they needed you most?"

Nick knew exactly what Neil was talking about. "I believe it's possible to love someone, and still fail them." He paused. "He didn't do this to you on purpose, Neil."

Neil pulled the covers more tightly around himself. "Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. But motive doesn't matter, really, does it? Doesn't make it hurt less…"

Nick sighed. "Greg's only human, Neil," he said. "I… don't know what else to say, other than that."

Neil was quiet. For a moment, Nick wondered if he'd fallen asleep. "He never said it back," he whispered at last. "Barely ever let me say it."

Nick wasn't sure how, but he had a pretty good idea of what Neil was talking about. "You think he's perfect?"

"For a while… yeah," Neil confessed. "Weaker wills would have left way before he did. But in the end… he still left."

"Even the strongest of us can't be strong all the time," Nick said. "He got scared. He bolted. It doesn't have anything to do with how much he cared about you."

"It's nice of you to say that…" said Neil thoughtfully. He took a deep breath. "I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound. I grant I never saw a goddess go. My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare…"

Nick frowned, recognizing that Neil was quoting but not sure of the source. "Shakespeare?" he guessed.

"I think I understand now," he said quietly, his voice sounding far away.

Nick smiled. "Maybe you do," he said.

Neil didn't speak. Nick saw his shoulder move in a steady rhythm. The CSI rose to his feet and turned out the lights, but he didn't leave.

He stayed.

And he wasn't exactly sure why.


	9. Until Death

**_Author's Note:_** Be prepared to be mad at me...

Chapter Eight: Until Death

He slept for days. And when he wasn't sleeping, he didn't have the strength to get out of bed. He couldn't stomach his crimes against Neil. When he slept, he dreamed only of him, and when he awoke, he couldn't stop picturing him, weary and broken, wasting away alone in that hospital room.

Sometimes, he would walk around the desert. He imagined it as his sort of spirit quest. The sun was high and hot, even though the city was cold and dark in late January. He kicked at the dust at his feet and watched it swirl. He would walk for hours, away from the motel and the outskirts of the city, but he never felt lost. Once, he'd found an outcropping from which he could see the horizon for so far in either direction he swore he detected the curve in the earth's surface. He had sat down there and watched the sun plummet from the sky, slowly but ever so inevitably, until it was buried under the ground.

And then, he was back in the motel, asleep, tossing and turning without any answers.

His eyes snapped open. He didn't know what day it was, and seconds before he hadn't been ready. But this was instantaneous, as epiphanies often are, and he was finally prepared to be there by Neil's side, to live for Neil, do everything for Neil, because he knew that's what needed to be done. Greg couldn't focus on himself, not anymore. Thoughts of living without Neil had plagued him for so long, and now where was he? Without Neil. He had fulfilled his own nightmare.

He threw the covers off of the motel bed and leapt out, hastily pulling on his jeans and didn't even bother to find a clean shirt as he stuffed everything in his suitcase and packed, barely remembering the keys to the room as he left.

He checked out as quickly as possible and threw his bag into the trunk, driving back into the city. Unlike before, now he was purposeful and driven. He wasn't going to run anymore. He knew exactly where he was needed, and that was where he was going.

Now that he had a destination, he realized how far from his home he had actually roamed. The minutes bled into hours, and all of Greg's focus was on the road, intent on getting to that hospital as safely and as quickly as physically possible. Years of joyriding in his father's car had taught him how to drive fast enough to get a thrill, but still remain in control so his parents wouldn't kill him in the morning for totaling their car (or possibly himself).

After what seemed like far too long, Greg found himself at the hospital when the sun was at its highest, and bolted for the elevator up from the parking garage. He waited, impatiently tapping his hand against his thigh and grinding his teeth when the elevator opened on his floor.

He stepped out onto the familiar floor and grinned madly at the lovely receptionist, Nora, though she was busy sorting out charts, it seemed. But just after he turned down the hall that led to Neil's room, an ill wind seemed to rush past him, solidifying the blood in his veins. He shook off the chill, dismissing it as an adrenaline rush and began to power walk down the hall. He would have run, but Nora had already yelled at him once for that.

And then, the door came into view, and Greg's smile grew. He picked up the pace, unable to contain his glee, because he would be able to see Neil again, be able to say everything he had been too scared to confess before, and Neil wouldn't have to be alone anymore, and they could both be scared together—

Greg's thoughts disappeared from his mind, and he forgot momentarily what he had been thinking at all. He had opened the door loudly in his excitement to see Neil again, only to find that he wasn't there. The bed was neatly made, and all of Neil's things were gone, including his cell phone.

At first, Greg simply didn't understand. They must have moved Neil to another room. It was possible, but why was it necessary? And then, Greg thought, Neil must have checked out. Decided to go home, sleep in their bed, and fade away in familiar surroundings. Greg nodded to himself. Yes, that must be it. Neil had to be home.

He whirled around and ran headfirst into someone, causing him to stumble backwards and try to regain his balance. "Sorry…" he began, then looked at the person he'd run into and the words caught in his throat.

Nick Stokes was staring at him with a strange expression, as if he didn't believe Greg was really there. "Greg?"

"Nick?"

They both looked at each other, each wondering what the other was doing there, but both too afraid to speak up first. Nick shook his head slowly, his brow furrowing and his eyes narrowing in confusion as he tried to figure it all out.

"Where have you been?"

Greg's chest was rising and falling noticeably. He had used up too much energy in his rush to see Neil, and now the adrenaline was subsiding. "I had to… think some things through. What are you doing here?"

Nick's face fell and his brown eyes glistened in the pale florescent light of the hospital hallway. "Are you looking for Neil?" he asked in a whisper, as if it were a secret.

Slowly, Greg nodded. "Yeah… You don't… I mean, you wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?" He gestured back at the room. "I saw… the bed, and his things are gone, and I think maybe he might have gone back to my apartment, because I promised him that I would—"

"Greg…" Nick interrupted, suddenly. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath through his nose. He held it a moment before exhaling and shaking his head. "Greg, while you were gone, Neil's health deteriorated. He couldn't hang on—"

"No," Greg interjected, shaking his head. He smiled, almost hysterically. "No, how would you know anyway? You don't know him. You met him once, and I'll be surprised if you remember that—"

"_Las Vegas Sun_, two years ago, almost three now, Erika Swanson case," Nick rattled off. "He flirted with you. And you hung behind to flirt back."

"OK, so… What does that prove?" said Greg with a shrug. "Can I see him now? Where is he? Where's Neil?"

"Greg, if you wanted to see him—"

"_Where is he_?!" Greg yelled, seizing Nick by the shoulders as his voice echoed off the walls in the hospital corridor.

Nick stared at Greg with wide eyes, obviously not knowing how to say what he needed to say. "Neil had a heart attack at eight o'clock this morning. He couldn't take it in his condition. He died about an hour ago."

Greg's breathing was audible now as his mouth hung open. The breaths were faster and deeper as he stared right back at Nick, as if waiting for the punch line of a cruel joke that would never come. And then, his eyes fell away, to the floor, frantically darting around, searching for something, anything to hang onto.

He pushed Nick away from him violently, opening up his hands as if he were disgusted by the Texan. Slowly, he brought those hands to cover his mouth and nose, slamming his jaw shut as he breathed deeply through his nostrils. One of his arms moved down and wrapped around his stomach as he felt the nausea rise up in him, grief so real it was physical, and it was a kind of pain he had never felt before. Not even after Warrick died.

He stumbled backwards into the wall by the door to Neil's old hospital room as Nick continued to watch him from a small distance away. Slowly, Greg slid down that wall until his knees were up against his chest and he was staring at Nick's shins. The pair of legs before him took a few cautious steps forward before they bent at the knee and Nick was kneeling in front of him.

"Greg?"

The voice was kind and quiet, laced with an empathy Greg couldn't fathom in his state of mind. Greg's hand still covered his mouth, keeping everything he was feeling at bay, and he was afraid if he removed it, it would all fall apart. He looked at Nick, deep into his sweet sienna eyes and tried to swim so far into them that he would lose his way and drown.

"Let me drive you home," Nick offered, straightening and offering his hand to Greg.

Greg's eyes moved to follow Nick's face and slowly, he nodded, knowing that he couldn't stay there. He extended a shaky hand and Nick seized his wrist in a firm grip and pulled Greg back up to his feet. The younger man staggered as he regained his balance, and found his hands pressed against Nick's chest. He blinked, then his eyes flickered up to meet Nick's, whose hands were on Greg's shoulders to keep him steady.

"I packed away all of Neil's things," Nick said quietly. "They're in my car. I'll take you home and—"

"Can't go home," Greg uttered.

Nick paused, then slowly nodded. "Where do you want to go?"

Greg's eyes slowly unfocussed as he tried to think of an answer, but he just shook his head, in a daze. He shrugged, then looked to Nick for guidance.

The Texan nodded. "I know where we can go," he assured Greg, in answer to the unasked question.

Greg trusted Nick with everything he had, so he nodded, then took a step backwards and let his arms fall against his sides. His knees almost buckled under his weight, but somehow he managed to remain standing. He turned, facing the end of the long, foreboding corridor and he felt himself shiver.

And then, he felt strong, solid fingers enclose around his upper arm, and he drew all his strength from it. Nick became his crutch, and Greg leaned on him to keep from falling as they made their way down the hospital corridor.

Greg lost time for a moment, because the next thing he knew he was sitting in the passenger's seat of Nick's car, staring out the window at the bright sunny day. He felt as if the sun were laughing in his face, and prayed for rain. But the rain never came.

In the blink of an eye, Nick was opening the door to his house and Greg was leaning against the wall, watching him in silence before following him inside. The Texan turned and looked at him, awkwardly, suddenly unsure of what to do.

"Would you like me to get you a drink, or…"

"Can I sleep here?" Greg asked.

"Of course," Nick assured him. "I mean, I wasn't really… expecting you, so I don't have anything made up, but—"

"I'll just take the couch," Greg said, gesturing at it with a half shrug. He began to walk over there when Nick called after him.

"No. I have a guest bedroom. Let me just put some sheets on the bed and you can…" He trailed off as he noticed that his words had no effect on Greg, who had already sat down on the couch, and was now laying down on it and resting his head against the arm, staring that the silent television before closing his eyes.

He slept a long time.

* * *

Greg opened his eyes and found himself staring at the ceiling. For a moment, his mind was a blank slate. He thought he was in his motel room, miles away from central Las Vegas, and maybe today he could run back to Neil before he lost him forever. And then he remembered he'd already done that, and he'd been too late.

He found that he was resting on a comfortable mattress he could have sworn he hadn't fallen asleep on the day before. He closed his eyes and sighed, deducing that Nick must have moved him.

"Stubborn bastard…" Greg muttered. He would have been perfectly content with waking up on the couch with a crick in his neck. It was the least he deserved. And anyway, at least then, he might have remembered where he was after he'd woken up.

Greg sat up and looked at his watch, noting that it was an hour before his shift started and made the impromptu decision to go in and see his coworkers. After all, they may have missed him in the days he'd been gone. Or… it might have been weeks. Greg had lost track of time while he was away, but it couldn't have been _very_ long. It was still January, after all. He hoped.

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck out, which was still a little sore even though he must not have spent long on the couch. He looked down and realized he was already dressed in the clothes he'd worn yesterday, so that was one less thing he needed to worry about.

He entered the kitchen and saw a pot of coffee was brewing. Nick was at the sink scrubbing at a dish when Greg arrived, and the Texan looked at him as if Greg might explode at any second. Nick carefully put the plate down and smiled at Greg.

"Hey. How are you doing?"

"Can't complain," Greg replied, making a beeline for the coffee. "Do you have a mug or something I can use?"

Nick nodded before opening a cupboard and fetching one for him.

Greg poured the steaming brown liquid into the mug, watching it intently. He set it down and opened the fridge, searching for milk.

"In the shelf on the door," Nick directed.

"Aha," Greg replied, seizing it and closing the door.

"I didn't think you'd be up right now," Nick told him, honestly.

"Well, have to get to work, don't I?" Greg asked, pouring the milk.

Nick paused, clearly searching for the words. "Greg, I don't think you should go into work today."

"Why not?" Greg asked casually as he closed up the milk carton.

"What do you mean 'why not'?" Nick asked cautiously as he watched Greg put the milk away.

Greg turned around, holding his mug and shrugged. "I haven't been in a while, and I'll bet the others have been wondering where I've been. Frankly, I'm a little surprised no one filed a missing persons report." He chuckled before shaking it off and taking a sip of his coffee.

"Actually… I told Catherine that you were having a family emergency," Nick said carefully, as if afraid Greg would disapprove.

Greg kept the coffee mug to his lips for a moment before lowering it. "Oh. Thank you."

"But it was irresponsible of you to run out without your phone and without letting anyone know where you went," Nick said, unable to keep back the snide tone.

Greg nodded mechanically. "Yeah, you're right, I'm sorry." He took another sip. "Promise that won't happen again." He tilted back his head and finished the mug. "You ready to go?"

Nick stumbled. "What? No, I thought we decided you were staying here."

"No, we didn't," Greg said. "And anyways, my car is at the hospital, so I thought maybe you could give me a ride. Then after work, I'll just catch a cab over there to pick up my car and go home."

"Go home?" Nick seemed startled by the suggestion. "Why would you go home now?"

Greg shrugged. "Why wouldn't I? It's where I lived, isn't it?"

"It's also where Neil lived," Nick reminded him, forgetting momentarily that this might be a soft spot.

Greg winced, but swiftly shrugged it off. "Well, then, all the more reason to go back, isn't it? Gotta face it sooner or later."

"Probably later rather than sooner… Greg, are you sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine, Nick," Greg assured him with a broad, reassuring grin. "Death happens every day in our job, doesn't it?"

"Not to the people we care about," Nick said. "Greg, I remember when Warrick died—"

"Don't," Greg cut him off, a little aggressively. He took a deep breath, then smiled. "Look, Warrick… was a while ago, and we've both dealt with that, and you've clearly moved on, so there's no point in bringing him up, is there? And as for N-Neil…" He stumbled on the word but plowed past it. "There are certain affairs that need to be put in order. Funeral arrangements. Estate sales. He had a house that he'd been renting out since he came over to my apartment. When the lease is up, I'll probably have to put it on the market. He gave me power of attorney, so I have to take care of all these things." He approached the sink and Nick stepped aside, allowing him to wash out his mug and put it neatly in the dishwasher.

Nick frowned. "Greg, it's OK to grieve a little."

"I grieved yesterday," said Greg with a straight face. "And now, I'm over it. Can we go to work now?"

He hoped that Nick would leave it there. He hoped that Nick would just agree and take him into work, so he could have something else to focus on. He couldn't stay in this house and burden Nick. He was suddenly missing his cozy motel room on the outskirts of the city.

"Fine," Nick finally agreed. "We'll go to work. But Greg, please, come back here tonight instead of going home, OK?"

"But I have to—"

"No," Nick interrupted, firmly. "You don't have to do anything right away. No one expects you to be a solid rock the day after the man you loved—"

"Who says I loved him?" Greg interrupted harshly. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Look, Nick, don't pretend like you knew him, or us, because you didn't, OK? He was… someone I dated, for a while, and when he got sick, I just… couldn't just break up with him, I mean, that's just cruel, so…" But the lie tasted bitter, even to him. He tried to spit it out of his mouth and shrug it off, looking Nick directly in the eyes. "It's not something I talk about. So can we just go? Please?"

"I'll take you in, if you promise to come back home with me afterwards," Nick said quietly, in a voice that wouldn't take no for an answer.

Greg concluded that one more night at Nick's wouldn't hurt. He could sneak out the next day and take a cab to the hospital and go home then. "OK," he said, giving in. "OK, I'll impose on you for one other night."

Nick beamed. "Thank you. That makes me feel a whole lot better."


	10. In Honor of the Promises We Make

_**Author's Note:**_ Sorry about the severe lack of updates on Monday. I was stuck with this story, so I postponed updating a bit, but now I know the direction in which I want to take it, so here's Wednesday's update as promised. I did try and ease the pain by posting a rather smutty horror/comedy story ("In the Maize"), so I hope that provided SOME entertainment in the update drought. Also, for those of you who thought you'd seen the last of Neil, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Chapter Nine: In Honor of the Promises We Make

_One Week Earlier…_

Nick had taken to stopping by the hospital every day after shift to check on Neil. He had managed to pacify an anxious Catherine by explaining away Greg's absence. Unfortunately, Neil was not that easily convinced.

"You don't have to come here, you know," Neil said, cocking his head to the side as his go-kart rounded a corner. "This isn't your problem."

"If I didn't come, who would you race with?" Nick returned with a half smile as he pulled level with Neil and subsequently passed him.

Only to be hit with a green shell half a second later.

"Ah! You bastard," Nick muttered.

"Bowser never wins," said Neil seriously. "Should have chosen another character, my friend."

"You're a mushroom, how can you drive anyway?" Nick asked as he recovered from the green shell incident.

"Greg was a dinosaur," Neil returned. "Aren't they supposed to be extinct?"

Nick laughed as he tried to regain third place. And then, there was a natural lull in the conversation, which Nick blamed on the mention of Greg. "I'm really sorry he isn't here with you, Neil."

The blond man shrugged. "No point in wishing, is there? Things are how they are." He smiled. "Beat you. First place again."

"And there I come in third," said Nick as he passed the finish line.

Neil leaned back in his bed and smiled, turning to look at Nick. "Honestly, this is too much. You don't have to come here every day. We aren't friends or anything."

"Why can't we be friends?" Nick asked, innocently.

"Because I'm dying," Neil replied. "I won't be here next year."

"And that means you can't have friends?" Nick asked with a laugh.

Neil shrugged sheepishly and looked away. "I'd rather just go quietly, you know? Not make any waves or leave any damage behind. Just slip away and the world keeps spinning. I make friends, I can't do that."

Nick tried to keep his smile. "And Greg. You think you haven't made any waves with him?"

"He's not here, is he?" Neil said. "Can't have made _that_ much of an impression…"

"Neil, I've got to tell you something," Nick began, slowly. "I… listened to that voicemail you left on Greg's phone. You told him that you didn't blame him—"

"I didn't want him to feel—"

"Exactly," Nick interjected. "You didn't want him to feel guilty. Why would he feel guilty if he didn't care?"

Neil closed his eyes before shaking his head and shrugging. "I don't know. I don't know how he feels, I never do. Man's like a rock. Or like… those guards at Buckingham Palace with those crazy hats. You _know_ they'd be a riot at the pub after shift, but they don't say a word to you."

Nick's eyes fell to the floor, his mind flashing back to Greg's break down in the car several weeks before. "He feels a lot. Just doesn't like to let it show, is all."

"He's good with happy," Neil noted, nodding as he remembered. "Always was good at that. If there's anyone you can count on to cheer you up, it's Greg Sanders."

"Been there," said Nick with a small smile.

"Panic, he could never hide that," Neil said, shaking his head. "Too much going on to even try. Like when your friend, Sara, was missing."

Nick frowned. "You were dating when that happened?"

Neil nodded. "Oh yes, I've heard volumes about Miss Sara Sidle. Almost as much as I've heard about you, Mr. Stokes. And you, you didn't know anything about me, did you? What's that say about the way Greg felt about me?"

"He wasn't ashamed of you," said Nick, looking Neil straight in the eyes to make his point.

Neil shook his head. "I know he wasn't out at work, and I get that. But he didn't even mention me as a friend, did he?"

Nick had run out of things to say. "I think, Neil, all that should matter is that you loved him."

Neil pursed his lips and nodded as his eyes glistened. "Yeah. You would think that. I try to tell myself that." He turned his head to look out the window at the gray sky. "I do have to give him credit, though. Without him, I would have dealt with this completely on my own. I haven't had a real friend in years, not with the job I have. It must have been hard to stay with me, after he first heard. I guess he stayed as long as he could." When he turned back to Nick, he was smiling again. "You're not here for me, are you?"

"What?" Nick was confused. "Of course I am. No one should go through this alone."

"OK," Neil conceded. "You may be here a little bit for me. But mostly, it's for him, isn't it?"

Nick watched him a moment, those curious raised eyebrows, that knowing smile, and those sharp blue eyes. "Greg's been a very good friend of mine for many years. I think he'd want someone to be here for you when he can't be."

Neil shook his head. "Give me a little credit, Nick. I may be dying, but I'm not stupid."

"I don't know what you're trying to say…" Nick said carefully.

"It's OK, you know," said Neil, with a half shrug. "When I'm gone, it's actually nice to know that there'll be someone looking out for Greg. You may be here with me for him right now, but when I'm gone, Nick, you have to promise me that you'll be there, with him, for me."

Nick watched him. "You have to promise me something, too."

Neil feigned personal injury as he grasped at his chest. "You're really asking a favor of a dying man? Have you no shame?"

"You have to find a way to forgive him," said Nick. "You'll feel better when you do."

Neil's smile faded. "Can you love someone, and I mean really _love_ someone… and still be incapable of forgiving him?"

"I don't know," said Nick, honestly.

Neil sighed. "I do," he said, quietly, looking out the window. "I do."

* * *

As Nick approached Neil's room the morning after his shift, he saw Dr. Norton standing outside the door and speaking with someone in surgical scrubs. The surgeon nodded, then spun around and made her way back down the hall.

"Good morning, Dr. Norton," Nick greeted.

"Mr. Stokes, I was hoping you would be here," he said.

"Eight o'clock on the dot, right when visiting hours start," Nick said with a grin. "Am I ever late?"

"No, and that's why I didn't call you right away," said Dr. Norton. "Neil has suffered another heart attack. We just sent him up to surgery, but this one doesn't look good."

"Surgery?" Nick blinked. "Oh, man…"

"He may be in there for a while," said Dr. Norton. "Why don't you go and have a cup of coffee and I'll page you when we have any news."

"Actually, I'd rather stay here," said Nick. He gestured at the room. "Um, would you mind if I just waited in there for a while?"

"No, go right ahead," said Dr. Norton, looking at his watch. "Now if you excuse me, I have other patients…"

He walked away and Nick entered the hospital room. The sheets to Neil's bed were thrown to the side. The television was off, but Nick noticed that the light on the Nintendo 64 was still on so he switched on the TV and saw that Neil's character had run into the wall, his go-kart stalled. Every other racer had finished the race already.

Nick turned off the TV and moved back towards the bed, his foot stepping on something that rubbed against the linoleum. Nick paused and lifted his foot off of a piece of paper, which he lifted up and unfolded.

It was a drawing of a winking dog with its tongue hanging out and its tail straight in the air. It wore a collar around its neck with two name tags. A different name was etched on each of them, specifically 'Stoker' and 'Kipling.' In the top left hand corner, in the messy scrawl that was usually reserved for English teachers and doctors, someone had written, 'To Our Master.' In the bottom right corner was the message, 'Name him what you want, but love him with everything you have. Your mistress, Neil.'

Nick's brows furrowed as he refolded the paper and put it in his jacket. With a sigh he sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room, ringing out his hands. His eyes kept being drawn towards the red light on the game console. He saw the controller forgotten by the bed and picked it up, walking to the television and turning it on.

Neil's character, Toad, was still facing the wall, the go-kart still stalled, and the happy music of the game still playing. Nick felt that if everyone else had already finished the race, than Neil deserved to finish as well. He lifted the controller, put Toad's car in reverse, and drove to the finish line, which wasn't far as Neil had been on his third lap before he'd stopped playing.

Even though Toad had finished last, Nick realized that the circuit wasn't entirely over. He continued to race, using the mushroom-headed character, through every single course in the game, and then did it all over again. It was strange how driving the same courses over and over didn't bore him, even as the hours past, because his mind wasn't really focused on the game at all.

And then, the door to his room opened and Nick was inches from the finish line on his third lap on the last course of the game, but he paused anyway, looking up instantly.

Dr. Norton stood there, and he was not smiling. Nick got to his feet. "Is he…?"

Dr. Norton shook his head. "His heart failed," he said quietly. "There was nothing we could do."

Nick was actually surprised at the force that struck him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He couldn't have known Neil more than a week and a half and yet it was as if he had lost something very important that he would never find again.

"I see…" he said, when he could breathe again. "Well… I'll gather his things."

"If you could contact Mr. Sanders—"

"I can't," Nick interrupted, coldly. "I don't know where he is. No one does."

Dr. Norton nodded. "Sometimes, these things can be too much for a person."

"Yeah," said Nick, fighting back tears he didn't think he'd shed. "Tell me about it."

He went to the table upon which rested the Nintendo and the television, and, after a brief pause, switched off and unplugged the console.

* * *

_Present._

Nick's eyes kept glancing at Greg across the hall, who was looking over Archie's shoulder at something pertaining to the case he was working with Riley. Greg had been right; everyone was glad to see him back, and no one saw a change in him. He seemed to have recovered from Neil's death far too quickly. Nick had only known him for just over a week, and _he _was still having difficulty dealing with it, though he couldn't let that show in front of Greg.

"Nick, are you OK?" Langston said, his deep voice drawing Nick back into the room they were in.

"Oh, yeah. Um… what were we talking about again?"

"The broken window," Langston reminded him. "There was glass outside, but not inside."

"Oh, right," said Nick.

"You seem a little distracted," said Langston. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing, just… a friend… acquaintance, I should say, kind of… well, he died yesterday and it's just been on my mind, lately, that's all."

Langston frowned. "Oh, I'm sorry for your loss…" His brow furrowed and he shook his head. "I never get used to saying that. But I really am. Sorry."

"Mm, yeah…" Nick muttered.

"Was it… sudden?" Langston asked, tentatively.

"Huh?" Nick blinked. "Oh, yeah. No. It wasn't sudden. We kind of saw this coming for a while now. He was sick, but it's still hard."

"What did he have?" Langston asked. "Out of… medical morbid curiosity."

"Something called Vilmer's Disease?" Nick said with a shrug. "I'd never heard of it."

"I have," said Langston. "Treated a case several years back. Hard to diagnose. It's so rare, many doctors forget about it until nothing else makes sense. The… granulomas that cause it, they're the key to diagnosis. But sometimes they're so small—"

"Yeah," Nick interrupted. "Right. Well, we should probably focus on the case." He pulled one of the crime scene photos towards him and looked at the shattered glass on the ground.

Langston paused. "Quite the coincidence that the day after your friend dies, Greg shows up again," he said, looking across the hall into the AV lab, where Greg was now laughing at a joke Archie had apparently made.

"Yeah, really," Nick mumbled.

The day dragged on, and every chance he could get, Nick would look Greg's way, but the younger man never looked back. A handful of times, Nick thought of voicing his concerns to Catherine, explaining what had happened in the week and a half Greg was gone, and ask her advice. But he decided that she didn't need to worry about Greg anymore than she already had.

When shift was over, Nick was in the locker room, putting away a few things when Greg appeared in the doorway. "OK," said the younger man. "I'm ready to go when you are."

"Would you like to get your car?" Nick asked. "You have some things there, I'm assuming."

"No," said Greg. "I'm not going to be staying with you past tonight. I can get everything tomorrow."

Nick watched him for a long time before he said, "OK."

The drive back to Nick's place was uneventful. Greg had insisted on turning on the radio and turning up the volume, successfully making conversation impossible while he rocked out to music that Nick thought had died in the 1990s.

They went through the motions. When they got out of the car, Nick asked how Greg's day went, and the younger man had exuberantly told him that everything had been fantastic. Nick put the key in the lock and opened the door, and Greg walked right in, followed by the perplexed Texan.

"Well, good night," Greg said, already on his way down the hall. "Or maybe… is it good morning? Ah, I never could get that right. Sweet dreams, at any rate." He winked at Nick and smiled before disappearing behind the guestroom door.

His head hanging low, his breath caught in his chest, Nick approached the closed door and put his ear against it, listening. He didn't hear a sound. Giving up, he leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor, his arms around one bent leg as the other lazily stuck out into the hallway. He waited and he waited to hear something, anything, that would tell him that Greg needed him, that Greg was allowing himself to calm down, but he heard nothing.

He continued to wait by the door, even as his eyelids grew heavy, and darkness encroached upon his vision. He closed them for a minute.

And then, the door creaked and Nick was immediately awake. The hallway was much brighter than it had been a moment ago, before he had closed his eyes. He looked up and saw Greg looking down at him, a rather amused expression on his face.

"Camping out, partner?"

"I, um…" Nick was suddenly embarrassed as he got to his feet and stretched. "Er… fell?"

Greg snorted. "Right. I'm just going to get some water. Is that OK with you?"

"Sure," said Nick with a yawn.

"OK," Greg said brightly, making his way to the kitchen.

Nick followed him there and took a seat at the table as Greg filled a glass at the sink. "You're not taking this well at all."

"I think I'm doing very well," said Greg with a smile as he turned around.

"Greg, can I tell you something?" Nick asked. "Something personal?"

He could tell by the look in Greg's eyes that the younger man wanted to say no, but instead he shrugged. "Sure. Go for it."

"After you… left…" Nick began slowly. "I went to your place to look for you. I found your phone. Heard your voicemails. Three of them were from Neil."

"Boy did like to chat a lot," Greg said.

"Stop it, Greg," Nick said sharply, unable to deal with that anymore. "Stop making jokes like that."

Greg's smile faded. He took a long sip from his water to disguise this fact. "OK, so what? You heard my voicemails."

"Yeah," Nick said. "Greg, why do you think I was at the hospital when Neil died? Do you think I go there every day? I mean, in general? Because… I _have_ been going there every day recently. Since you left, I sat there every day, playing video games and shooting the breeze with your boyfriend. We talked about a lot of things. We talked about you a lot. We also talked about video games and Shakespeare and the places he'd been. It's amazing the things you can learn from a dying man, Greg. He gave me more than I could ever—"

"No," Greg interrupted, his voice holding an undeniable quaver now as he gripped his glass tighter. "No, shut up. You don't talk about him that way. You didn't know him."

"But that's what I'm saying, Greg," said Nick slowly. "I really did. I knew him… incredibly well, considering the brief time I had with him. I can only imagine how well you knew him, in the two years you spent together."

Greg's smile was completely gone at this point as he shot daggers at Nick, breathing strongly through his nose. "Don't accuse me," he spat, defensively.

Nick was taken aback. "I'm not accusing you of anything, Greg, I just—"

"It's not my fault," Greg snapped. "I had no control over… anything. It wouldn't stop. We tried, we fought, I threw every dollar I had away, trying to fight it, but it didn't help." He gritted his teeth and looked sharply away. "What happened wasn't my fault."

Nick frowned. "I know that, Greg."

"No, you don't!" Greg cried, furiously. "You say you do, you say that you knew him, you spent one week with him. Maybe two. And now you're like his fucking brother? We went through this for three _months_ before you showed up. Longer than that. He'd been having problems since August, for fuck's sake. Don't tell me that you _knew_ him." He slammed his palm against his chest, loudly. "_I_ knew him. I knew him and I… I left him." He frowned, as if he couldn't understand that. "I left him and I don't…" He clapped his hand against his mouth and shook his head. "I'm tired. It's late. I just want to go back to sleep."

"No," said Nick, standing up and blocking his exit. "Greg, I know this is painful, but you need to go through this. You can't pretend like it's not there. It won't go away unless you get it out."

He looked at Nick, his eyes wide and desperate. "Please… please, Nicky, don't make me."

It took all of Nick's strength to remain standing in his way. "I'm trying to help you, Greg."

"But I did it," Greg said. "I did it, I left him, and he was alone…" Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, and he wiped at them furiously. "And all because I couldn't deal with it. I could not watch him die like that, not the man that I had spent two years… two… years…" He brought his hands up to his face and bowed his head. "Who does that?" he said into his hands, his voice barely distinguishable.

Nick remained stoic as he approached him. "You've been strong for so long, Greg," he said, "that I think you've forgotten what it's like to have someone take care of _you_."

When Greg looked up, his eyes were red, but he wiped the tears away again. "Is that an offer?" he asked, trying to smile.

Nick had to laugh. "Yeah. I made a promise."

Greg shook his head. "I can't… I'm just so… pissed off at myself. At him. At the doctors who couldn't figure it out. At the insurance who wouldn't cover him. But mostly, at myself, for leaving him there like that… I thought I could make it right. I thought, if I came back, he would smile, and realize that I hadn't abandoned him. But he never knew that I came back. He never knew, and it's my own fucking fault." He took a deep breath and raked a shuddering hand through his hair. "Fuck!" He cursed loudly, not caring who heard him, emphasizing every single letter in the word as he stared at the ceiling, the concussive sound of the 'k' still lingering in the air between them.

Nick took a step forward, but Greg held up a hand, his eyes on the floor.

"No… no, don't come any closer," he warned. "I might have to hurt you."

Nick stopped, and nodded. "I think I can take you somewhere that can help," he suggested.

Greg looked up at him, and behind everything else Nick could see curiosity in his eyes. "Oh yeah?"

Nick smiled. "Get your coat."


	11. Among the Ghosts

_**Author's Note:**_ Greetings from Virginia. There was a slight scare when I thought my mother's laptop wouldn't read my USB stick but I cleared that up. I miss my own laptop... Oh well, here's Friday's chapter as promised.

Chapter Ten: Among the Ghosts

Greg gave Nick an impressed look as he snapped on his helmet. "I have to admit, this is not what I expected," he said, his fingers closing around the cool leather of the wheel. "I was thinking the gym or somewhere I could hit something."

"Oh come on, you couldn't throw a punch if your life depended on it," said Nick with a smirk. "This is much more your style."

Greg looked at the open track in front of him. "That it most certainly is," he said with a sigh.

The light turned green, and they both hit the gas, accelerating past the checkered finish line and out into the race. Greg relished the wind whipping against his face and couldn't contain a smile as he thought of how much Neil would have loved this. But thinking of Neil only made him stomp harder on the gas, propelling his go-kart past Nick's as he rounded the upcoming bend. He tried to lose himself in the moment, gritting his teeth as he imagined all the video games, trying to clear his head. But it only made things worse. He revved the engine, tried to go as fast as he could, thinking of all the days he had laid in bed with Neil by his side playing video games. He thought of all the grief he had put Neil through, and how his lover had never left his side for a moment when Greg had needed him. He thought of the jokes and the laughter and the fights and the dreams and the whispers and the endless nights of mind-blowing sex and he twisted his grip on the wheel of the car.

He couldn't believe Nick had thought of this.

He couldn't believe he'd never thought to take Neil here.

He couldn't believe that now he'd never have the chance.

He slowed as he approached the finish line and stopped, noticing the red light. He heard Nick pull up beside him. "How you feeling?"

Greg stared at the track ahead of him, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He shook his head, ripped off his helmet and exited the go-kart as fast as possible, throwing the helmet in the seat and marching away from the track.

He heard Nick's feet pound against the pavement as the Texan chased him out into the parking lot. "Greg, wait!"

The younger man halted and spun on his heel to face his pursuer and shook his head. "I don't get it," he said. "It just doesn't make sense, none of it makes sense. I did everything they told me to do! I gave him whatever pills they prescribed, I took care of him the best I knew how, I paid for the experimental treatments, I did everything they asked, but he's still dead, Nick. Nothing I did mattered, and I hate that. I think that's why I left. I couldn't take it. Is that my fault? Is it?"

"No," Nick said quietly, grasping Greg's upper arms. "Greg, none of this was your fault."

"I didn't deserve him, not a fucking bit," Greg spat, taking a step backwards and wriggling out of Nick's grip. "He deserved someone who could have taken care of him better. Someone who wouldn't have gotten so scared. Someone who could handle this. Not an asshole like me."

"But he wanted you," Nick said. "He didn't want anyone else, he wanted you. And didn't he deserve to have what he wanted?"

"But I wasn't there," Greg growled.

"You were there when it counted," Nick replied.

Greg sighed. "You were there," he said. "You said you were there. Were you… there a lot?"

Slowly, Nick nodded. "He loved you so much, Greg. And he knew you so well." He looked down at the concrete for a moment before opening his jacket.

"Oh God, please tell me you're going to shoot me," Greg begged.

Nick smiled, but instead of a gun, he pulled out a piece of paper. "I'm not sure," he said, "but I think this is for you."

Greg was confused. He took a step towards Nick as the Texan held out the paper. Greg unfolded it and saw the sketch of a dog, and Neil's familiar scrawl all over the page. A chill ran down his spine, as if he were receiving messages from beyond the grave. He stared at the paper and his heart lurched. And then, he heard a strange sound, like thunder, and he realized that it was the paper he held as it shook with his hands.

"Never told him…"

And then strong, warm fingers wrapped themselves around his wrists, ceasing their shaking. "You didn't have to tell him."

Greg looked up, into those deep brown eyes, and the betrayal still burned strong in his stomach when he looked at them, because he wanted so badly to be held, to be taken care of, to be pacified, and yet he didn't feel like he had that right. "Nick…" He wanted to tell him everything, voice every single thought he had ever had in his life, crack open his chest and expose his bleeding heart, let Nick rip it out and dissect it until he knew everything there was to know about Greg Sanders, from Greg's quiet idolization of Nick since the first day they'd met through to this very moment, where he stood raw and abused and empty, longing to be filled.

But as his mouth hung open and his lips trembled, and all the words that he'd never said to Neil echoed in his head, no sounds came out. He realized that he was still clinging to the drawing, and that Nick was still gripping his wrists. He closed his eyes and drew his arms into his chest before falling forward, burying his face in Nick's neck and trying to hide there from everything.

Nick's arms rose to embrace him, though neither one of them made a sound. Greg tried to breathe, but he felt as if there were rocks on his chest. He felt protected in the embrace, warm and sheltered, and yet it didn't feel right. He could still feel his stomach twist and churn with betrayal, as if he were being unfaithful to Neil.

But he didn't pull away. And the tragic paradox was that in allowing himself to draw comfort from Nick's embrace, he only ended up feeling worse.

* * *

Nick drove Greg back to his house, and as was becoming routine, Greg said very little, using the radio to fill the silent void between them. When they came home, Greg immediately hid in the guestroom, this time without so much as a "good night." Sighing, Nick decided that it was time to retire to his own bed, especially if he was going into work the next day.

His alarm went off, the grating buzzing more abrasive than normal, but Nick turned it off. He stretched and went to the kitchen, putting on a pot of coffee before he went to take his shower and get dressed. When the majority of his evening routine was completed, he found it odd that Greg had not woken up yet.

He knocked on the younger man's door, calling his name. When he heard nothing, he opened the door and looked inside.

The bed looked as if it had never been slept in. Greg had disappeared, leaving no evidence behind that he had ever been there at all. Nick sighed and shook his head, hoping he would see the younger man at work in a few hours.

Luckily, he did. He smiled at Greg when he saw the younger man talking with Riley in the break room. Greg managed a half-hearted smile in return, but his eyes were hazy and far away.

And they didn't speak. Not for the rest of the day.

* * *

When he returned from work that day, Greg sat alone in his empty apartment, trying not to breathe because he could smell Neil everywhere. Instead, he hugged his knees to his chest and leaned against the front door, letting his eyes drift over the empty apartment.

It was so quiet here now, but his ghost still haunted these ruins. Neil's things were everywhere, scattered about the place. Old video games and DVDs on the coffee table, and books by authors Greg had always heard of but had never read littered his dining room table.

With a pang in his chest, Greg remembered once when Neil had tried to dramatically brush the table free of books and pin Greg against it. The journalist had missed a few and the corners of a hardcover had pressed into Greg's spine, leaving a mark. Greg smiled and leaned his forehead against his knees.

"I miss you…" he said to the air, to the smell, to the ghost. "I'm sorry I let you down, babe. I loved you so much that I didn't know how to say it. And I was afraid that if I did, then that would be the end of it. Then I would lose you, for real. Because if I didn't say it, then our story couldn't end. It wouldn't be resolved, and you couldn't go away. But life's not a fairy tale, and we never lived one. The only thing unfinished business guarantees is ghosts…"

He waited for an answer, a sign from his vacant apartment that someone had heard him, that someone forgave him, but nothing came. Everything was still and undisturbed. Greg wished he could have said the same for his stomach.

His eyes again found the dining table, and the hint of an image flickered before his vision, as if something familiar was lurking in the corner of his eye. He couldn't focus on it, but if he let his eyes relax, he could almost see it, clear as day, like looking at a 3D movie without glasses.

The table was no longer cluttered with books and novels Greg had promised Neil he'd read later, when he had the time. Instead, it was wiped clean and a stark white table cloth was draped over it, topped with a candelabra and two wine glasses. The door opened from the bedroom and the holographic form of Neil strode down the hall, looking around a moment before he smiled, finding what he was looking for in a bucket of ice. He pulled out the champagne and admired it, approvingly. Neil was clad in a sharp suit, his blue silk tie sparkling in the light of the candles.

Even though Greg was leaning against the door, it opened, and someone entered, exhausted and clearly uninterested in anything Neil had planned.

"You're back," said the ghost.

Neil grinned. "Mm hm, fresh from New York and with money in my wallet to burn!"

"And you're in my apartment…" the ghost of Greg observed.

Neil grinned and waved his hands. "Surprise!"

"We're celebrating something…" Greg deduced, clearly struggling to remember what that was.

"Two things," Neil chimed. "Your success in beating the system and my success in world politics."

"I didn't beat the system, Neil," Greg grumbled, dumping his things unceremoniously on the sofa as he made for the kitchen. "Actually, I feel like the system beat me. And hard." He opened the fridge. "I swore I had some beer in here…"

Neil looked again at the bottle of champagne in his hand, then up at Greg. "Champagne?" he offered, clearly feeling neglected, though the ghost of Greg heard nothing.

"Beer," Greg said, annunciating as if Neil were dense. "I don't want bubbly crap, I want beer."

"Beer is carbonated too," Neil mumbled, placing the champagne back in the bucket.

"Well, it's not crap," Greg snapped.

"You're out," Neil said. "Greg, don't do this tonight."

"Do what?" Greg asked, closing the door to the fridge and entering the living room again. He walked right by Neil and grabbed his coat.

"Where are you going?" Neil asked, his brow furrowing in hurt confusion.

"Grocery store," Greg said.

"But I have champagne…" Neil said, futilely.

Greg turned. "Look, Neil, I've had a really rough day today, OK, so frankly, I don't really feel like celebrating, if that's all right with you."

Neil wrapped his arms around himself, insecurely. "I do…"

"Why?" Greg asked, turning on him. "Because they settled? My bosses paid off the people who were suing me. What does that say about me?"

Neil seemed confused. "That you don't have to go back to court?"

"No," said Greg. "It means that nobody thinks I'm not guilty. Not even the people who are supposed to have been on my side."

"I don't think you're guilty," Neil muttered. "Greg, I think this is good news. I remember what that hearing did to you, you were so stressed out and you wouldn't sleep, I don't think court is a good thing, and I for one am glad you don't have to go through that again."

Greg snorted contemptuously, as if Neil could never understand. "It's not about that, Neil. It's about what I did. How it's affected people, and whether or not I could have done something else."

Neil pursed his lips, silently offended, but again, the ghost of Greg failed to see it. "OK. Fine. I'm sorry they settled your suit out of court, then. I'm sorry you had a bad day. But maybe, just maybe, there might be something else for us to celebrate."

"Neil," Greg groaned. "So your article got bought up by Associated Press, so what? It's not like that's never happened before."

Neil straightened. "Yeah. OK. Maybe my accomplishments aren't as interesting as yours, all right, but I got to interview the Dalai Fucking Lama about this Seeds of Compassion thing, and I got to hang out with him, and maybe he told me a few good jokes, huh, but what do you care? I guess you'll never know the punch line to the joke about the two Buddhist monks who walk into a bar."

This sufficiently stunned Greg. "Oh. Right. The Dalai Lama thing."

"And the Seeds of Fucking Compassion," Neil spat, bitterly.

"Yeah, you were on the Morning Show in New York…" Greg said, rubbing his tired eyes.

"Did you even watch it?" Neil asked.

Greg stopped rubbing his eyes and looked up at Neil. "I think I have it Tivoed."

Neil stood firm for a good five seconds before he couldn't control himself anymore and swiped the champagne bottle from the bucket of ice, sitting in the chair. "Just go get your beer," he said, quietly.

Greg hesitated as Neil struggled to uncork the champagne. "Do you need help with—"

"No," Neil interrupted harshly, before sighing and giving up. "Yes."

Greg approached the table. "I'm sorry, Neil."

Neil stared at the table. "You work so many doubles, it's just… like you're never here anymore. And when you are here, you're distracted, by work, by this Demetrius James bullshit, by your friends, by something… I guess it's easy to forget about what's going on in my life when you have so much going on in yours."

Greg took a seat across from Neil and reached out. "Let me take that," he said.

Neil shook his head, clinging to the bottle like a security blanket. "It's something else today, too, dunno if you remember…"

Greg shook his head. "I'm sorry I wasn't more supportive about you and the Dalai Lama. You're right, that is a really big deal. And the AP bought your article? Whose publishing? And what kind of royalties are we talking about here?" He smiled.

Neil said nothing, he just fiddled with the cork in the bottle. "I'm not your enemy, Greg. Don't treat me like I am."

Greg sighed. "I take a lot out on you, I know," he conceded. "I'll… try and be better about that, I really will. I care about you, Neil, and I appreciate everything you do and all you are. I'm sorry if I've ever made you feel like this isn't true."

Neil nodded, then looked up. He opened his mouth, as if about to say something highly significant, when he said, "I think I burned dinner."

Greg laughed. "We'll order take out," he said. "No problem. Chinese is always the best way to celebrate anything. So… forgive me, it's not your birthday today, is it? What else are we celebrating?"

Neil shrugged and smiled. "Nothing important," he said, handing Greg the champagne. "Now here. Pop the bubbly, my good man!"

Greg smiled and obliged.

And just like that, the image faded away, and the table cloth and candelabra were gone, as were the two figures acting out the scene in Greg's memory. There was nothing left but cobwebs and dust, and the tiniest of irrelevant epiphanies.

"The day we first met," the present Greg murmured to himself. "That was what you wanted to celebrate. The day I first came into your office and laid eyes on you. Or you laid eyes on me. You would have said you saw me first, that you had always known we'd end up together, known better than I could read palms…" He sighed. "I should have asked you to move in with me right then and there. We had always talked about it, but it was always too soon. Until you got sick. Then nothing was soon enough."

Greg sighed and choked back a sob, raking his hand back into his hair. He felt the furiously familiar sting in the corners of his eyes and tilted his head back. Even now, he didn't understand why he still had his guard up. He wasn't sure why he was uncomfortable with breaking down, even in the privacy of his own home, with no one around to see him. He assumed it was because he felt as if Neil were still there, watching him. As if Neil would always be there. And Greg refused to let him down now, after he had let him down so frequently in the past.

Regardless, one can only pretend for so long, and even the most cleverly constructed of dams have their breaking points.

He gasped as he felt a sharp agonizing stab, a physical pain in his chest that felt like an icicle had pierced him. And then, there came another. And another. In wavelike spasms they washed over him, and he exorcised his demons through his mouth, gasping, retching, cursing, begging, screaming until everything overwhelmed him and he was beating the floor, the sobs tearing out of him like angry spirits, glad to break free and apathetic to the gory mess they would leave in their wake.

For several minutes, he was a man possessed, attacking his hardwood floor until his knuckles bled, dragging himself over to the carpet by the sofa where he had spent so many nights falling asleep to old horror movies with his head in Neil's lap, and he seized fistfuls of the carpet, trying to tear it up as if he could dig a hole there, crawl inside, and bury himself alive. He howled like a werewolf in a snare, ready to gnaw off his own leg if it would stop the pain, if he could escape this hell that was the four walls of his own apartment.

And then, when it was all over, and his hands were raw from the floor's assault on them, he collapsed, half-dead. His face inhaled the stale scent of the carpet and he closed his eyes, his head throbbing, his eyes swollen, and his cheeks drenched in sweat and tears. He had thought that after he'd gotten it all out, things might be better. That perhaps he would feel relieved or vindicated, but he felt nothing now, and in several ways, that was worse.

The emotions were gone, but the pain, a grief so pure it was physical, remained, slicing at his chest and head and throat like an axe murderer with no motive beyond sadism. And as Greg laid there on the floor, staring underneath the sofa, he didn't want to move. What could he do now? Now that all the anger was gone, what did he have left to cling to?

What could he do now?

He took a deep breath and sat up. He looked around the apartment, at Neil's things, and slowly got to his feet. He began by collecting the books on the dining table that he never read, and probably never would. He found an old box in his closet and pulled it out, dumping all the books unceremoniously inside there.

It was an ongoing process, but it had to be done. Just like funeral arrangements and property management. So Greg did it because it was the only thing he could do.

And even though Neil didn't have very many things at Greg's apartment, it took Greg three days to finally finish gathering it all up. This was partly because he still had to go to work, but also because often he would just sit on the couch and stare at the box. And often, he would decide to get drunk instead.

But eventually it was done. The video games and the Nintendo 64 he had received from Nick were the last to go. He folded the flaps of the box and duct taped it closed. He stared at it for a few minutes longer before shoving it in his closet and slamming the door.

And then, he badly needed a drink.


	12. Under the Influence

**_Author's Note:_** Apologies for the lack of update on Monday. I'm super busy in our nation's capital, visiting family and seeing old friends, and I didn't have time. Figured I'd just wait until Wednesday.

Chapter 11: Under The Influence

It was late, but this was not unusual for Nick. While most of Las Vegas relaxed or went out on their days off, he decided he would rather stay in and look over a few case files. So that's why he was hunched over his desk in the study, reading glasses on, his fingers running over the words in court documents and lab results.

There was a connection, but it was a frustrating one. The ex-wife's new husband taught rock climbing at the local REI. Unfortunately, he'd been in Hawaii at the time of the stabbing, which meant that the chalk had to have come from some other source.

_A pool player maybe_, Nick thought, half-sarcastically. He imagined someone being impaled on a pool stick, then shook his head to clear it.

"Focus," he told himself. This was important. Nick quickly found that if he didn't focus on work, then he dwelled on Greg far longer than he should. He knew that he thought about Greg more often than friends probably think about each other, even as close as they were. And now that Greg was clearly grieving, he consumed Nick's waking mind, and often his sleeping one.

Nick flinched as he remembered the inappropriate dreams he'd been having lately, about consoling a desolate Greg which somehow always inevitably led to incredible sex that woke him up before it was finished, and he was left aching and frustrated and embarrassed. Not embarrassed because he was dreaming about Greg again, he'd gotten over that shame ages ago. No, Nick was embarrassed because he was dreaming about taking advantage of him. And that truly was shameful.

He emitted a frustrated sigh and tried to focus again on the task at hand. There were way too many discrepancies. It was almost as though someone was trying to frame the ex and her husband.

And then, all of a sudden, there was a knock at the door.

Nick looked up, unsure about who would be visiting him at this hour. He pushed his chair aside and went to answer it, grateful for the break and the distraction from thinking about Greg. He opened the door, half-expecting to greet a neighbor or a delivery person with the wrong house, but instead he found the object of his thoughts.

Greg was standing on his doorstep, his head down, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. When he heard the door open, he looked up and Nick almost fell over backwards.

Over the last week, Nick had watched from afar as Greg grew paler. He even looked slightly skinnier, though it was difficult to tell. And every time that he had tried to approach Greg, the younger man had self-consciously shied away from him. So Nick had retreated, knowing that if Greg ever needed to talk, he knew where to go.

And here he was.

"Can I come in?" Greg asked, rubbing his arms as if he were cold, though the air was humid.

Nick nodded rapidly, his mouth dry as he stepped back to let Greg enter the house. The younger man strode into the hallway, then stopped and spun around, looking at Nick for fa moment, and then narrowing his eyes.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," he said.

Nick blinked, and then his hand flew to his face, realizing that he still had on his reading glasses. "Only sometimes, when my eyes are tired," he explained quickly, as he took them off. He paused, unsure of what to do, so he cleaned the lenses with his shirt. "Um… What are you doing here, Greg?"

Greg rolled his shoulders. "I don't know… I don't know… I thought maybe… we could talk?" he suggested.

Nick detected a slight slur in his vowels. They were more elongated than normal, and his consonants weren't as sharp, as if his lips were numb. "Have you been drinking?"

"No," Greg said, quickly. "Yes. A little. How are you?"

Nick shrugged. "Worried," he confessed.

"I like that about you," said Greg, nodding in approval. He pointed at him and shook his finger. "You always wear your heart on your sleeve."

Nick nodded, slowly. "You want to have a seat?" he asked, gesturing to the living room. "Maybe I could make you some coffee—"

"I've discovered that I don't like being alone," Greg said, cutting Nick off like he wasn't listening. "I… haven't been alone in over two years, not really alone, anyway, and it's… It's just been a really… long… time. And days, they pass like years, and it feels like I haven't heard his voice in decades. And I started drinking champagne, because that's the only thing he'd drink, or maybe some cocktail like a watermelontini. What the fuck is a watermelontini anyway, it's like drinking a jolly rancher! And then, and here's where Neil would say, I mean, he'd say, 'But that's the point, it's liquid candy.'" Greg smiled, his eyes focused on a point somewhere over Nick's shoulder. "He'd say things like that. I think, sometimes, we were too much alike. I felt like the adult when I was with him… And that's really saying something…" He paused, and then shook his head, focusing again on Nick. "So yeah, so I started with the champagne, but that didn't really do anything for me, so then I went and I bought some beer, and I walked around the city for a bit, and there were the lights, and I think somebody tried to sell me E and I seriously considered buying it but then I thought it would be a bad idea so I didn't, because I'm cautious, now, can you imagine? Me, cautious. I may have bought it, may have bought it if he offered it to me five years or so ago, but not today, not this year, because now I belong to someone, I'm somebody's boyfriend, I have someone to let _down_, only I don't, I don't have someone, not anymore. I did yesterday, but not today. Or was it the day before yesterday? It doesn't matter, the point is that he came into my life, and I was this person, I was Greg Sanders, and I was myself, and then when he came into my life I wasn't just myself anymore, I was myself and _him_, and I became a we and it was strange and scary and exhilarating, and the thought that I mattered, _we_ mattered, and I was a part of something more than just myself, and today I woke up and I realized that I'm not a _we_ anymore, I'm an I all over again, and it's killing me…"

He leaned his shoulder against the wall, shaking his head as if he didn't understand. "I liked that feeling, Nick," he said, quietly. "And now that he's gone, I don't know how I can get it back."

There was a strange, awkward silence that hovered in the air, because Nick wasn't sure what Greg wanted him to say. He took a step towards the broken man. "Greg, everything you do _matters_."

"To who?" Greg asked.

"To me."

Greg looked up at him. "I matter to you?"

Nick wavered. "Well, I mean, not just me… Catherine, and Riley, they all care about you too."

Greg's shoulders seemed to slump. "I know that," he said. "That's not what I meant."

_Not what I meant either_, Nick thought to himself. He moved closer to Greg until they were face to face. He gently reached out and rested his hand on Greg's forearm. "Come on, you look like you should sit down."

Greg allowed Nick to guide him into the living room and towards the couch, where he sat down, his eyes glazed over. "Took me a few days, but I finally got the funeral stuff out of the way. It's on Friday, by the way. I don't really know whose coming. He said he wasn't friends with anyone at work, and he had no family—"

"I'd love to come," Nick interrupted, kneeling down in front of Greg.

He seemed puzzled. "Did I already invite you? Because I thought I didn't, but did I already ask?"

Nick held his breath, than sighed. "So you've been making arrangements, that's good."

"Talked to the lawyers," Greg said. "We're going to have an estate clearance sale. Everything must go…" He waved his hand vaguely in the air before dropping it into his lap again. "We're having a sale on video games. They're fifty percent off, on account of they're old and no one wants to play them anymore. You want? I could get you some for cheap." He smiled and winked at Nick. "I used to know the owner. I was sleeping with him."

Nick managed a weak smile, placing his hands on Greg's knees. "You sure you don't want coffee?"

Greg shook his head, but didn't make a sound. He covered Nick's hands with his own. "I just want you," he said.

Nick withdrew his hands and rose to his feet. "I think I should brew us some coffee," he said moving in the kitchen.

Greg leaned back on the couch, loudly and sarcastically declaring, "Oh that's _right_. You don't approve of this sort of thing. How dare I even suggest it?"

Nick stopped in the doorway and looked over his shoulder. "You assume too much, you know that, Greg?"

Greg grumbled as he leaned forward again and buried his face in his hand. "What do I assume, Nick? Assss_ume_." He snorted. "Ass out of you or me?"

"You _and_ me," Nick muttered as he entered the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and found a filter, sticking it in the coffee maker. He scooped some beans into the grinder and turned it on, filling up the pot with water.

"Nick…" Greg called from the living room. "I don't want any coffee. I know you're making coffee, don't tell me you're not."

And for a moment, Nick stopped and closed his eyes before sighing. He took the newly ground coffee and poured it into the maker. "I think you'll want coffee," he said quietly to himself.

"I told you," said Greg's voice, so close it made Nick jump. "I just want you."

Nick turned around to see Greg by the kitchen table, watching him with tired brown eyes. Nick smiled at him sadly. "No, you don't. You want Neil."

Greg managed a half-hearted shrug. "I can't have Neil," he said. "Neil is gone. Or at least, I should hope so, otherwise he'll get mad at me for selling all his stuff."

"You can't not do that, can you?" Nick asked. "Tell a joke instead of saying how you feel?"

"That's not true," Greg said, then paused. "Sometimes, I tell riddles. Hey, so these two Buddhist monks walk into a bar—"

"Greg, why don't you try being serious for a moment," Nick suggested.

"I am being serious," Greg said. "I need… contact," he spat out. "With someone. Anyone."

"I see…" Nick muttered.

"That came out wrong," Greg mumbled.

"No, it's exactly what you meant," Nick said. He took a few steps towards Greg when the younger man made a dash for his fridge.

"Do you have any beer?" Greg asked, searching the cold depths.

"I think you've had enough beer," Nick advised.

"If I'm not passed out yet, then I haven't had enough," said Greg, pulling out a bottle. "Red Hook? Light Ale? Wow, I never pegged you for a blonde. You're such a girl." He closed the fridge door and tried to open the bottle with his hand. "Ow."

"Oh, for God's sake, Greg," Nick mumbled, moving to a drawer and pulling out a bottle opener. "It's not a fucking twist-off."

"It's not?" Greg asked, taking the proffered opener. "Well, I just assumed the girly beer had a girly bottle cap." He popped off the cap and took a swig, then made a face. "I think this is bad."

"Maybe, it's been here since my sister came to visit," Nick said.

"And when was that?" Greg asked.

"Two years ago."

Greg eyed his bottle suspiciously before shrugging and taking another swig. He held it to his lips for a long time.

"Am I going to have to drive you to AA meetings now?" Nick asked, casually.

Greg brought the bottle down again, half the beer gone. "Stale beer is better if it goes down quickly." He took another long swig.

"Greg, I'm not comfortable with—"

"Anything I do, I know," Greg finished with a gasp. "You know, this isn't tasting so bad now. I think it's an acquired taste. Light beer… Is that some sort of oxymoron?"

Nick shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think you should drink anymore."

"Just need enough to work up the courage," Greg said, before finishing off the bottle.

"The courage for what?" Nick asked as he watched the last of the beer slide down the neck of the bottle into Greg's mouth.

Greg slammed the bottle on the counter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before looking up at Nick. He stared at the Texan for about five seconds with dark and guarded eyes. And then, he took a deep breath and strode forward, quickly closing the distance and before Nick could even ask what he was doing, there were two hands on either side of his face, and Greg was kissing him, so fiercely Nick stumbled backwards and gripped the kitchen table to keep from falling.

Warmth flooded his body, but simultaneously, so did the frigid waves of fear. He seized Greg's shoulders and pushed him away with some difficulty. But finally, Greg relented and Nick gasped for air. As desperately as Greg had launched himself at Nick, he was now trying to squirm out of the Texan's tight grip.

"I know, I'm sorry!" Greg screamed. "I'm sorry, I just needed to… Just let me go!"

He wrenched himself away from Nick so hard he tumbled backwards and fell onto the floor. He stared up at Nick, his eyes suddenly frightened.

Nick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He held his hands out in front of him and tried to explain. "Greg, you don't have to apologize…"

Greg scuttled backwards until he ran into the fridge. "No, I do, I really do… I know how you feel about… this… and me…"

"No, you don't," Nick said, sternly. "You _really_ don't."

Greg shook his head. "I just don't know what else to do… When he was here, he needed me so much I felt suffocated. But now that he's gone, I realize… I needed him so much more."

"Greg," Nick said, stepping forward and kneeling on the floor.

"Stay away from me," Greg said, flinching.

Nick halted in his tracks. His heart lurched as he saw his friend cower, suddenly afraid of him. He offered a hand to help Greg to his feet. Greg looked at him and hesitated a moment, before he reluctantly took it. But Nick overestimated the amount of strength he'd needed to pull Greg up, and the younger man stumbled forward into him and Nick's arms wrapped around his waist to keep him from falling. Greg leaned his forehead against Nick's, his breathing low and deep, his scent musky with sweat and barley.

What happened next was nobody's fault. But the second Nick's eyes fell closed in the comfort of holding Greg in his arms, his lips sought out Greg's, and they found them and locked. He pushed Greg up against the refrigerator door as the younger man returned his passions in equal force, his hands sliding over Nick's shoulder and gripping his shirt in fists. The hands climbed further up into Nick's hair, desperately digging into his scalp, and the next thing Nick knew, Greg had whipped him around and the small of his back felt the edge of the counter digging into his skin. He leapt up and sat on the counter as Greg's mouth probed hungrily deeper, his fingers clawing down his chest to find the hem of Nick's shirt which he tugged upwards and, spellbound, Nick obeyed, letting go of Greg only long enough for the shirt to be pulled over his shoulders.

Greg may have been drunk, but it was Nick who was intoxicated by the moment, his senses heightened, his inhibitions dropped, and his understanding of what was happening very limited. He felt as if his self-control was gone for good as he allowed Greg to ravage him, planting painful kisses down the side of Nick's neck, Greg's fingernails clawing at his skin. And as he felt the need ache in his groin, he knew that this was wrong, that he shouldn't be letting Greg do this, not now, not so soon after he had lost Neil. It wasn't fair to anyone involved, not Neil, not Greg, and least of all Nick.

He did not want to be that guy.

His senses slowly returning to him, the spell Greg had cast suddenly breaking, Nick tensed. His thighs closed around Greg's hips and his fingers seized the younger man's shoulders' pushing him away, but this time, Greg refused to relent. He only held Nick harder, baring his teeth on the Texan's shoulder, and what had previously been a pleasurable amount of sting turned into horrifying pain.

Nick cried out as Greg wrapped his arms around him desperately, like he would never let him go. Nick was surprised at his strength and wriggled to escape his constricting grip. He called out Greg's name loudly, on the verge of fright, and that sound must have been the key to breaking the spell on Greg as well, because he suddenly withdrew and Nick broke free.

Greg immediately took several steps backwards, his eyes wide and his mouth agape as he took in Nick, sitting shirtless on his counter, a trickle of blood sliding down from where Greg had bit him on his shoulder. He started shivering, and then looked around the kitchen before he shook his head and ran, leaving Nick alone.

The Texan closed his eyes and sighed, sliding off of the counter and picking up his discarded shirt. He made his way to the front door, hoping that Greg hadn't been stupid enough to drive to his place in his condition. He arrived there just in time to see a taxi speed off into the distance.

Work the following evening was anything but pleasant. Nick had been so humiliated by his behavior, he had even considered staying home that day. He knew that Greg probably would work better without him there, at any rate. Still, just like his father had told him when he had refused to go to school because of a bully, you can't hide from your problems forever.

So Nick swallowed his courage and went into work, silently thanking whoever was responsible for the fact that he was now working on a case with Catherine, a double homicide at the Flamingo. Towards the end of the night, as they logged their evidence and sent it off to the techs to do their jobs, Catherine fell onto the couch in the break room with a sigh.

"Sometimes, I dream of a world where people just don't kill each other," she said, sounding exhausted.

Nick smirked as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "But then we'd be out of a job," he reminded her.

"I suppose that's true," Catherine said. "Does that make us murder profiteers?"

Nick shrugged, lifting the coffee to his lips.

"How's that case with you and Greg coming?" Catherine asked.

"Which case? The Connelly case?"

Catherine nodded.

Nick shifted. "Um… It's coming."

"You still have a few hours left on you shift," said Catherine. "Why don't you go find Greg and go over the case with Brass?"

"Greg's busy," Nick said quickly.

Catherine cocked an eyebrow. "He and Riley solved the arson case last week. Right now he's just helping out everyone else until I get a case for him. He's anything _but_ busy."

"Well, it's out of our hands now, anyways," Nick said, trying to sound casual. "We processed the evidence and gave Brass our input, now it's up to the cops to do their job."

Now both of Catherine's eyebrows were raised. She leaned forward and placed her forearms on her knees, clasping her hands as she stared at Nick. "OK. What gives? I know you've been pouring over that case file trying to figure it out, and now you're acting like you don't even care?"

"It's nothing, I've just been working so hard on the case that maybe I need to step away from it for a while—"

"So which is it, you need a break, or you want to let the cops handle it?" Catherine asked. "Choose a story and stick to it, Nick. This is about Greg, isn't it?"

Nick gaped. "What? No, I—"

"Nick, listen," Catherine interjected, rising to her feet and closing the door. "Three years ago, this was an entirely different lab, and we were an entirely different team. The world changes around us, and so do the people in it, and that's life. But you two are my solid links to the past. I know I can come up to you anytime and make some joke that died five years ago and you would still laugh about it. Don't get me wrong, I love Riley and Ray, but you two… You're the heart of this team, Nick. If something's up, I want to know about it." Nick opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. "No. No more bullshit. Do you think I'm an idiot? I've seen how you behave with Greg. And I've noticed that Greg's head has been somewhere far away from here for a long time. So I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that the friend he told you not to tell me about died, and now you're both trying to pretend like everything's normal."

Nick avoided her eyes and took a sip of his coffee to buy some time. She waited patiently, until finally, he said, "Yes. Neil died two weeks ago."

Catherine's brow furrowed and she chewed on her lip. "He should have told us. Or he should have at least told me. I would have given him time off, with pay, if he needed it. He's been working so hard lately, I could have figured out a way to authorize it…"

"Well, you should be talking to him about this, not me," said Nick. "I don't think he has anything to hide, but apparently, _he_ thinks he does, so… Don't tell him that you know."

"As usual," Catherine grumbled. "Is there anything that Greg tells you that you _are_ allowed to tell me?"

Nick thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. "Suddenly, he likes to keep his private life… private."

"That's so unlike him…" Catherine muttered. "It's like ever since Grissom's left, he's adopted the persona. Son of a bitch."

"I know," Nick said. "I'm not too sure what he's afraid of…"

"And you," Catherine said suddenly. "Why are you the chosen one?"

"Beg pardon?"

"How come you know everything?" Catherine explained. "He shuts all the rest of us out, but you, he lets in. How's that work?"

"I kind of… forced myself in," Nick said. "He didn't have a choice."

"That's a lie," said Catherine. "He's always been warmer to you."

"How do you figure that?" Nick asked.

Catherine shrugged. "It's not something you _figure_, it's something you _feel_. Instinct. Which, by the way, is something I have a lot of. And my _instinct_ is telling me that there's a huge chunk of this story that's all about you that you aren't talking about. Care to share?"

Nick wrapped his arms around himself, before he slowly nodded. "I think I took advantage of Greg yesterday."

"In what way?"

"Every way possible?" Nick suggested with a shrug, falling into a nearby chair.

Catherine approached him, that curious concern still etched in her features. "What happened?"

"He showed up at my place," Nick explained. "And he was drunk, and clearly upset. And then, he… I mean, I let him kiss me."

He watched Catherine to see a reaction, surprise or intrigue or anything in her features, but she held the same look she did at the beginning of the conversation.

"You don't seem surprised," he said.

"Please," she scoffed. "Greg's all gloomy and paying for his _friend's_ hospital bills? I already told you, Nick, I'm no idiot, and I've got instinct. So what did you do when he kissed you?"

Nick was immediately uncomfortable and squirmed in his chair. "I don't want to—"

"You liked it," Catherine interrupted. "Didn't you?"

Nick looked at her, fear creeping just under his skin, but he wasn't sure what he was afraid of. "I pushed him away," he said, refusing to answer her question. "And he… fell over. So I felt bad about pushing too hard and I helped him up and then the whole next part was a blur, but I think that I… I kissed _him_, this time, I pushed _him_ up against the fridge, and then everything escalated until I realized that this wasn't right, that it wasn't fair, and that he'd only end up regretting it, so I pushed him away again, and he looked hurt and horrified and he just… left…"

Catherine nodded. "You didn't do anything wrong, Nick."

"How can you say that?" Nick cried. "Greg just lost the person he's loved for the past two years, and I just…"

"Nick, listen," Catherine said, quietly. "Sometimes, we just need someone to remind us that we're not alone, that's all."

"I know," Nick said. "I know, that's exactly what he was doing, and I can't do that, Catherine. I want to be there for him, I want to help him, but I don't want to be the person that he—"

"I wasn't talking about Greg," Catherine whispered.

Nick paused, then looked sharply away. "So what do I do now?"

"Give him space," Catherine said. "And then maybe try talking to him."

"He thinks I rejected him—"

"Then explain that you _didn't_," Catherine insisted. "My God, what is the problem with men? Can you guys not talk about _anything_?"

Nick managed a small laugh before he nodded. "No, we generally just grunt and watch football. But what do I do in the meantime? He needs someone to help him out. He's trying to handle this all by himself, and he can't."

"Then maybe, if you're that worried about him, you should talk to him sooner, rather than later," Catherine suggested.

Nick sighed, because he knew she was right.


	13. Of Truth and Lies

**_Author's Note:_** FFN is messing with my formatting. Crossing my fingers and hoping this goes through. Once again, my love to LaughableBlackStorm for, well, putting up with me.

Chapter 12: Of Truth and Lies

Nick allowed a few days to pass before he finally decided to go to Greg's apartment. His heart rattling madly in his chest, he knocked on the door before shoving both his hands into his pockets and waiting impatiently for someone to open it.

To his surprise, the door opened swiftly and Greg stopped and blinked. "You're not the pizza guy," he said.

"I thought we needed to talk," said Nick.

Greg blanched. "No, I don't want to talk to you."

He tried to close the door, but Nick pushed it open. "Well I really want to talk to you."

Greg hesitated for a moment before stepping aside and allowing Nick to come in, closing the door behind him. Greg's apartment was remarkably clean, a stark contrast from when Nick had visited a month earlier. The curtains were drawn, the dining table was polished, and there were no DVDs littering the coffee table. In fact, there were very little personal touches at all. Nick felt almost as if he was walking into a model home, where everything was perfectly in place, but held absolutely no personality.

"What have you done to your apartment?" Nick asked, walking into the sparkling kitchen.

"I've been cleaning," said Greg simply, following the Texan.

"Well, clearly," said Nick. "You've cleaned it so much it's dead."

"I thought I got all of Neil's things…" Greg muttered. "But then everything I saw reminded me of him. In fact, I need to get rid of my dining table, do you want it? I can give you a good price."

"It's not a bad thing to be reminded of someone you loved," said Nick, turning around to face Greg.

"I told you, I never said—"

"That you loved him?" Nick interrupted. "I know. He told me. You know what else he told me?"

"What?" Greg asked, as if he were afraid of the answer.

"That he forgave you," Nick said.

Greg shook his head, tears suddenly blossoming. "No, you're lying."

"I'm not," said Nick. "In the end, he knew that you loved him. Even if you never said it."

"That's a lie," Greg hissed. "How could he have known?"

"Because he knew _you_, Greg," said Nick. "I already told you, you didn't have to tell him."

Greg pursed his lips and folded his arms. "Why are you here, Nick? To make me feel worse about myself?"

"No," said Nick quietly. "I came to apologize."

Greg looked flabbergasted. "Apologize? What could _you_ possibly have to apologize to _me_ for?"

"The other night, at my place," Nick explained, feeling the heat in his cheeks. "I didn't react well to the situation at hand—"

"You mean when I tried to rape you?" Greg suggested, cocking his eyebrow. "I don't think it's _you_ who reacted badly."

"Rape me?" Nick gaped. "Greg, isn't that a little strong? I'd hardly call it that."

"I attacked you," Greg said simply, avoiding Nick's eyes. "And when you told me to stop, I wouldn't let you go. That sounds like rape to me."

Nick was startled by the coldness in his voice. "Greg, no…"

"You didn't want it," Greg mumbled. "But I wanted you so badly, and I… I don't want to hurt you, Nicky. So I'm sorry. _I'm_ sorry. But you don't have to be. So maybe it'll be better if you just leave."

Nick took in their surroundings. Another night, another kitchen, another chance to make things right. He took a step forward. "I didn't say stop because I don't want you, Greg," he said.

Greg shook his head. "No, don't try to make me feel better, Nick. I know you think this kind of thing is disgusting, and it's nice of you to pretend that—"

"No, Greg," Nick said. "I led you on. I initiated it—"

"Why would you?" Greg interrupted. "No, you didn't initiate anything, it was my fault, I did it, I know. I've been going through it over and over again in my head and I can't believe that I behaved like that… Because I just wanted to…" He shook his head and took a deep breath. "It doesn't matter what I wanted. Because nothing is worth hurting you, Nick."

"You didn't hurt me," Nick assured him. "In fact, I came here tonight to make sure that I didn't hurt you."

"You're not what's hurting me, Nick…" Greg said quietly, folding his arms.

Nick took a few more steps forward until they were almost touching. Greg turned his head stubbornly away from the Texan. "I want to be here for you, Greg. You know I always am."

"But you don't see me the way I want you to," Greg whispered. "I get that. And thank you, by the way, for not freaking out. About what I did…"

Nick looked down at the ground. "You always see what you want to see, Greg, but for once just look at what's right in front of you. You didn't kiss me the other night—"

"If you want to go that way, fine, we can forget that this ever—"

"No," Nick interrupted harshly. "I mean you didn't kiss _me_. You kissed Neil."

Greg looked at him and blinked. "I know…" he said. "I know, Nick, and I'm sorry."

"Greg…" Nick began, his heart twisting in his chest. "I… would prefer it that, the next time you kiss me, you do it because… it's me."

Greg leaned his head back against the wall. "There won't be a next time, I promise—Wait… I'm sorry, I thought you said… what did you say?"

Nick reached out and brushed the back of his fingers against Greg's warm, sweaty cheek, and the younger man flinched, but then quickly relaxed. "I told you, you only see what you want to see. It was easier to think that I hated you than the alternative."

Greg's mouth opened partially and he frowned. "Um…" he began. "I don't… I don't think I understand what you mean…"

Nick leaned forward, and Greg closed his eyes expectantly, but Nick's lips only brushed against his forehead before he pulled away. "You think you're alone," Nick began, "but you've never been alone, Greg. Not since I've known you. Not really."

For a moment, Greg said nothing, he just looked at Nick with a peculiar expression. "This is… it's the truth?"

Slowly, Nick nodded, his cheeks reddening. Now was a terrible time for declarations of love.

"How come you never…" Greg frowned, clearly confused. "I mean, I thought that, when you found out about Neil, you thought I was… wrong or something, but now you're saying… You don't think I'm wrong, do you?"

"Only if I'm wrong, too," Nick replied. "I tried to tell you, but you never let me."

"Oh God…" Greg gasped, his hands dragging across his face. "Oh my God…"

Nick looked sharply away. "I know. This is horrible timing—"

"No," said Greg, shaking his head. "It's not. Nick… I didn't want to ask this before, because I thought that you… It doesn't matter, but… well… Would you just… sleep with me?"

Nick backed away. "Greg, you have no idea how many times I've thought about this, and in my dreams I might have said yes, but I don't want to be that guy."

Greg looked strangely hurt. "What? I feel like I'm getting mixed signals here."

"I'm sorry about that," said Nick. "But I know that you don't really want to sleep with me, not now, anyway. You just need a distraction from Neil, and I don't want to be that person, OK? If we ever have sex—"

"Sex?" Greg gaped. "Who said anything about sex? Nick, I just want a warm bed, and a warm body, and sleep."

Nick's face burned. "Oh. Right. _Sleep_ with you… with actual _sleeping_ involved. Of course, that would make the _most_ sense…"

"Would you rather I asked you to just hold me?" Greg suggested, a sarcastic and slightly amused look on his worn and tired face.

Nick laughed to dispel his own humiliation. "No, no, I'm… sorry. I'm acting like—"

"A boy with a crush?" Greg asked. "Been there."

Nick felt his flush deepen. "All right. I think I can do that," he said, before looking up at Greg.

"Thank you," Greg said, with deep gratitude in his eyes.

Nick shifted and then reached out a hand, which Greg gratefully took. Greg led the Texan by the hand to his bedroom down the hall. Greg walked through the door, letting go of the Texan's hand as he pulled off his shirt and let it fall to the floor. Nick watched from the doorway, feeling slightly voyeuristic as he saw the muscles in Greg's back move with his arms as he stretched. Greg kicked off his shoes, stripped off his jeans, tossed open the covers, and crawled beneath them. When he was finally in bed, he looked up at Nick expectantly.

"You coming?"

Nick nodded, then approached the bed, taking off only his shoes and laying on top of the covers parallel to Greg who smiled at him.

"Come on," said Greg. "I'm giving you the green light to crawl into bed with me and you have to be the gentleman."

Nick reached out and tucked Greg's hair behind his ear, his hand resting against Greg's cheek. "Just being here is enough for me."

Greg closed his eyes and laughed. "Get off the bed, loser," he said.

Slightly confused, Nick didn't argue, and Greg threw the covers aside.

"Now get in," Greg said.

With a small smile, Nick obeyed and Greg threw the covers over him, then moved closer, tucking his head to his chest as Nick embraced him, Nick's chin resting on top of his head. They laid there for a long time, and Nick wasn't sure if he was supposed to do anything or say anything at all. Greg didn't move or say anything himself, so Nick tried to relax, tried not to think of the fact that his hands were flat against Greg's bare back, or the fact that Greg was nearly naked in bed with him, while he in all his modesty remained fully clothed.

Of course, Nick realized, Greg was the one who was completely exposed and vulnerable, and Nick was the one who still kept up his guard. He closed his eyes.

"You don't smell like him," Greg said suddenly, just when Nick was wondering if he'd fallen asleep.

He tried not to feel awkward. "I'm sorry…"

"No, that's a good thing," said Greg. "This whole place smells like him. It's nice to find something that doesn't. Something that's new." Nick felt Greg take a deep breath and exhale through his nose. "New is… it's good…"

Nick manffaged a small smile. "Are you going to be OK?"

"In a while," Greg replied. "I think. Maybe. These kind of things get better with time… don't they?"

He was looking for reassurance, but Nick immediately thought of Warrick and closed his eyes. "Yeah, it does."

"At least… when I dream about him now… you'll be here." Greg pulled away slightly and looked up so he could see Nick's eyes. "You will… be here, won't you?"

Nick nodded. "You dream about him often."

"No… only, maybe, well… every night…"

Nick kissed the top of Greg's head. "It hurts right now. The wounds are raw and burning, but in a while, you'll find comfort in those dreams."

"I don't know what he'd say…" Greg began, "if he knew I ran to another man's arms so quickly. If he knew that I tried to jump your bones."

Nick couldn't suppress a laugh. "You miss him."

There was a sharp intake of breath and Greg shook just a little. His voice cracked when he spoke. "Yeah."

Nick stroked Greg's hair. "He'd understand that. He missed you, too, when you were gone."

"Did he try to jump your bones?" Greg asked.

Nick rolled his eyes. "No," he said. "But he flirted with me."

Greg snorted. "Of course he did. Bastard's a tease, always was."

Nick smiled. "A little, maybe. But he would never betray you for anything, Greg."

Greg was quiet for a moment, and Nick wondered if he'd said something wrong. "You're right. He wouldn't."

Nick could hear the regret in his voice and sighed. "I shouldn't have said—"

"But it's true. Neil was nothing if not loyal."

"You were both loyal."

"Is that what you call abandoning the man you love?" Greg asked.

The smile returned to Nick's lips. "You just said you loved him."

"Too little, too late."

"It's never too late."

"It is," Greg insisted. "He can't hear me anymore, his ghost isn't lingering here, waiting for me to say those words, no… No." He was angry all of a sudden, and pulled away from Nick, rolling onto his other side, his back to the man he had so vulnerably invited into his bed. "He was right. This is all there is. No Heaven or Hell or ghosts or souls, just… death."

Nick moved closer to Greg, sitting up on his elbow as his hand carefully slid over Greg's bicep, his lips quietly brushing against his shoulder. "I don't believe that," he said.

Greg closed his eyes. "I love you."

"Feel better?" Nick asked.

Greg didn't say anything.

"Saying it out loud helps. How do you know he can't hear you?"

"I wasn't talking to Neil," Greg whispered.

Nick's breath caught in his throat. He withdrew his hand from Greg's bicep. "Greg…"

"And now I've gone and scared you off again." With a frustrated growl, Greg threw off the covers and tossed his legs over the side of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and raking his hands back through his hair. "My God, what is wrong with me?"

Nick followed Greg's lead and sat up, pulling his knees under him and making his way over to the young man on the edge of the bed. His hands gripped Greg's shoulders and he began to knead them methodically, like bread dough, working outwards from the neck and then back in again.

Meanwhile, Greg continued to talk. "I can't say it when it counts, and when I finally do say it, it's not the right time. I can't do relationships, I never could. Never had a relationship that lasted longer than six months, not with guys, girls, anyone, and then I met Neil and everything was just so… crazy, I didn't understand it, I didn't have _time_ to understand it, and then he was gone, and I'm just scared that if I take too much time to figure it out again, then you'll be gone too, and then no one will ever know that I'm even capable of… Oh _God_ that feels good."

Nick smirked as he moved down Greg's upper back. "You looked like you needed it."

"Mm…" Greg intoned, letting his head fall forward. "Damn, Nick, where did you learn to do this?"

"My sister taught me. She works in… alternative medicine."

"This the one up in Seattle?" Greg asked. "Abigail?"

"That's right," Nick said, impressed. "I'm surprised you remember."

"I remember everything you say," Greg mumbled, finally sounding more relaxed. "Except the boring stuff."

Nick leaned back. "Lie down," he instructed.

With a sigh, Greg acquiesced and swung his legs back up onto the bed before laying flat on his stomach. Nick traced the muscles in Greg's toned but pale back with his fingertips. He ran his forefinger down the prominent spine, making note of every scar and every mole and every mark. His hands began to work on a knot below Greg's left shoulder blade. He tried to remember what his sister had told him about pressure points and tension. He tried to recall the lecture she gave about stress, where the body stored it and why, and the best way to release it. At the time, he'd dismissed her ramblings as those of an average flower child acupuncturist, but now he wished he'd paid more attention. He wondered if any of her New Age techniques would be helpful to Greg at all. He wished he had at least something in his empty toolbox that he could use to help his frightened friend. But for now, all he had were his bare hands, so he tried to put them to good use.

Well, he had more than just his hands. "I love you, too."

Greg said nothing in response. He just lay still beneath Nick's hands as if he were dead. And then, Nick made note of the way his back rose and fell in a deep, steady rhythm. Nick closed his eyes and shook his head at himself and his stupidity. It was probably better that Greg hadn't heard him.

Nick moved off the bed and gently drew the covers over Greg's sleeping form, before exiting the room and finding a nice, comfortable place to sleep on the couch.

* * *

"I love you," he said, methodically rolling his knuckles deep into Greg's back.

"I love to hear you say that," Greg replied with a contented smile.

"I know you do," said the masseur. "You were always self-absorbed like that. But that's why I loved you."

Greg frowned at the use of the past tense. "What's the matter with you?" he asked. "You're not sounding like yourself."

The hands kneading his back grew stronger, the fingers biting deeper, and the massage became almost painful. "You'll excuse me if I'm a little bitter. A man often is when he's left to die alone."

"You didn't die…" Greg began slowly.

"Oh, that's right," his angry lover said, with a mocking laugh. "You don't believe in death. Only the end of life."

The fingers dug into his skin like a cat's claws and Greg turned, throwing the man off of him and back onto the bed.

The corpse of Neil Cooper lay beside him. He was a skeleton with flesh stretched tightly over his bony frame, and no eyes in his sockets only large, black gaping holes which somehow still managed to bore into Greg's skull like electric drills.

"Death leaves a dark stench in my ears," said Greg flatly. "There's such a putrid finality to it, it makes me want to claw my eyes out."

"You should try it sometime," said Neil with a toothy grin that spread to the holes in his head that passed for ears. "It's so much easier to see the truth without them."

"And what is the truth?" Greg asked. "That I loved, and my love was worth _nothing_? Or that you fell, and your fall ended in carnage?"

Neil inhaled deeply through his nose. "Ah, sweet carnage. Nothing like the smell of acid sprinkled over fresh wounds to make you feel more dead than alive. So this is it then? You slaughter me with apathy then desperately begin poisoning a new victim not days before you lay me beneath the dirt? What kind of murderer are you?"

"A lonely one," Greg returned. "It's not my fault that I kill and tell. I never was one for secrets."

A bony hand shot out and gripped Greg's neck, icy radiating from the fingertips. "If you kill him, I swear to Satan that I will never let you go," Neil threatened. "I die for only you and you should kill only for me, lest our roles be reversed, and it is you who they bury tomorrow under the earth, with the worms and the maggots and the bottom feeders that feed off of you. Even the grubs deserve better nourishment than your sorry sack of shit."

"Let me go," Greg managed to articulate clearly, despite the fact that he couldn't breathe. "Or I swear to God, I will kill you."

"Don't you get it?" Neil asked, with that twisted, toothy, eyeless grin. "That's exactly what I want, Greg. I _want_ you to kill me. Kill me, and only me, forever and ever, over and over and over again until you are drenched in my blood, until you can never get that smell out of your ears, until the sunset never tastes of anything but flesh, until you want to claw your eyes out in order to see—"

Greg woke up, gasping for air as if he had just barely escaped drowning. His bedroom was dark, and he was shaking in sheets saturated in cold sweat, and he turned to see if the skeletal demon that haunted his nightmares was still there.

He wasn't.

In fact, nobody was there at all.

He didn't know how he should feel about that.


	14. Without Him

**_Author's Note:_** Notification of Delay: Due to circumstances beyond my control (the end of spring break, an unprecedentedly long travel time between DC and Seattle, and an interest in a new story), there will be no chapter posted this coming Wednesday. However, this chapter is long enough, it should satisfy you until Friday. I can tell you that this new story that's snagged my interest has me returning to my roots-- action thrillers. Which has me very excited, especially with all the crafty planning it requires. Writing this new story should not interfere with me finishing this one. Posting may slow down, but it will finish. I know where it's going and what I want to do with it. If you've read my work before, you know I'd rather give a story a bad ending than no ending at all (which is probably the opposite of what a good writer does, but this is fan fiction, not the real world). Despite that, I don't think you should expect a bad ending. I think it'll surprise you, and I think you'll like it. Or at least, you'd better. ;o)

Thanks again to LaughableBlackStorm (my beta), and also a hearty thank you to happyharper13 for her fabulous insight and critical eye. It's very helpful.

Chapter 13: Without Him

Nick slept dreamlessly that night, but awoke instantly and found himself staring at Greg's living room ceiling. It didn't take him long to remember where he had crashed for the night, but he did wonder why he had awoken so immediately.

And then, he heard a door click closed and he sat up to see Greg leaning against it, watching Nick on the couch. The Texan blinked a few times to regain his bearings and shrug off the blanket of sleep that still weighed heavily on his mind.

"What's up?" he asked, feeling slightly slow-witted.

Greg managed a timid shrug. "I woke up and you weren't there."

Nick realized that his modesty had cost him dearly. "Oh, man, Greg…" he said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sorry. I just… I wasn't sure how long you wanted me there…"

"The whole point was so I didn't have to sleep alone," Greg muttered. "Why did you leave?"

Nick's cheeks burned red in the darkness and he was grateful that Greg couldn't see him. "I don't know, I just thought it would be better if I…" But now that Nick said it aloud, he realized how ridiculous it sounded. He fiddled subconsciously with his hands. "Um… do you need anything? I can make coffee—"

"Yeah, you're really good at making coffee," Greg said sharply.

Nick wondered if it was physically possible to shove his foot any deeper into his mouth. Instead of testing that theory, he decided to make up for it by stumbling to his feet and going over to Greg, planning on sweeping him off his feet. But upon his attempt, he somehow managed to trip over Greg's coffee table.

After the initial clatter and thump, there was silence in the apartment, that is, apart from the ringing in Nick's ears. But after that faded, he heard a quiet, vaguely familiar sound. As he slowly got to his feet and looked up at Greg, he saw the younger man hunched over with his hands covering his face. Nick's heart lurched to think that he was so disturbed by his dream it had reduced him to tears again.

"Greg, I—"

And then, through the noise, Greg snorted. "That… was hilarious."

Nick suddenly stopped and rolled his eyes as he came to his senses. "I'm really off my game tonight."

Greg, still laughing, nodded. "Yeah, you are."

Nick drew closer and slid his arms around Greg's waist, making the younger man look up at him with the ghost of his smile slowly fading from his lips. Greg opened his mouth and swallowed, visibly, apparently unsure of how to react to Nick's touch all of a sudden.

"You should go back to bed," Nick suggested.

Greg's hands hovered over Nick's arms. "Will you be there when I wake up?"

Without warning, Nick pulled Greg closer to him, making the younger man seize his shoulders instinctively. "I'll be as close as you like."

Greg watched him for a moment before closing his eyes. "Even before he was gone, when I looked at you… I couldn't help but feel like I was being unfaithful somehow. Just by looking at you. And then, like, he's dead for a week and I try and…" He shook his head and squirmed in Nick's grip, but the Texan wouldn't let him go. "Maybe I shouldn't even ask you to stay with me at all. I mean, it doesn't feel fair…"

Nick hushed him, his hand crawling up Greg's back and pressing against the back of his head, guiding Greg's face over his shoulder as they embraced properly. "It's not about lust or love or loyalty, Greg. You hurt, and you hurt bad. You need a friend. You need comfort. And that's what this is, Greg, comfort. I know that. And I bet Neil would understand that perfectly."

"It's about intimacy," Greg whispered, so quietly Nick wouldn't have heard him if he wasn't right next to his ear. "And that's… I said I loved you."

Nick scrambled to think of a response to this. "You were upset. You still are."

"So you're saying I didn't mean it?" Greg pulled away abruptly so he could see Nick's face.

Nick realized he'd said the wrong thing. Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. "Greg, I don't know what you meant or didn't mean. All I know is that you just lost someone very important in your life. I know what that's like. And despite all that five stages crap, everyone grieves in their own way. Everyone deals differently."

Greg said nothing. He just stared at the ground. "No… No, I think you were right the first time. I know that… it's wrong, to want you as badly as I do… But I feel like I've been waiting for you since…"

"As long as I've been waiting for you?" Nick supplied when Greg ran out of words.

Greg shook his head. "The funny thing is, I never even saw you as a possibility until two weeks ago. You were always just so… up there. You were someone I wanted to be, not someone I wanted to…" He bit his lip. "I'm sorry, I can't think of a better word than fuck, really, because I can't be… in…" He blinked rapidly, then looked up at Nick again.

Nick couldn't help but feel the sting of his remarks. He considered the years he had waited, keeping his distance, but always watching Greg, and watching _over_ Greg, always maintaining that personal space bubble, but also only a step away should Greg ever fall.

"Right," he said at last, if only to break the awkward silence that had settled between them. "Yeah, um, me too."

Greg's eyes were glassy and far away. "I spent two years with a man and never told him that I loved him… Do you think I'm trying to punish him?"

Nick was caught off guard by the question. "Punish him for what?"

"For leaving me without saying goodbye."

Nick said nothing. He had run out of words. Nothing he did seemed remotely effective, and though he stood there, in Greg's apartment, holding the man that he had wanted to hold for so long, this was not at all where he wanted to be.

"Get some rest," he said, forgetting Greg's question as he guided the younger man back into the bedroom. "You have a big day tomorrow."

* * *

The service was brief, which suited Greg fine. He remembered, at Warrick's funeral, he had managed to find some kind of closure. When the lid of the coffin had closed on his old friend, so had a door somewhere in Greg, and he hadn't opened it since. He had accepted then, that that part of his life was over, and he would have to continue in a life without Warrick in it. And he had managed.

It wasn't as easy with Neil. Even after the coffin was closed, and they were lowering it into the ground, the priest was saying something about ashes and dust, the only thing that Greg could think about was how much Neil had hated priests and churches. That wasn't entirely fair. He didn't really hate priests at all. _It's not like he was prejudiced_, Greg thought to himself, as if justifying Neil's feelings. _He just had a problem with God. He'd always said it was because, after his parents had died, he'd felt as if God had a problem with him._

Still, they stood in the graveyard of a church where his parents were buried, because this was where Neil had wanted to be laid to rest. Greg found it incredible that after all the places he'd traveled, there was still no place he'd rather spend eternity than with his parents.

_The boy really _was_ loyal_, Greg thought.

He took a deep breath and held it as the earth swallowed up almost three years of his life. He felt a hand squeeze his, and knew who it belonged to, but did not look at him. Instead, he looked at the other mourners that surrounded the grave. Greg recognized Neil's old editor who kept checking his watch impatiently. It made him grind his teeth. Beside the editor was a woman Greg did not recognize, but she wore a fashionable blazer and skirt with a pearl necklace and had a single tear streak down her cheek. She wore her dark hair in a bun on top of her head and a pen behind her ear, even on an occasion like this, which immediately told Greg that she was a fellow reporter for _The Sun_, most likely. There were a handful of others, some Greg had been introduced to on occasion. Neil had called them his friends, but none of them had ever inquired about him when he got sick, nor had they ever visited, and Neil rarely spoke of them, so Greg doubted that he'd been close to any of them.

As the service ended, people began to disperse. The editor left as soon as he was sure it was socially acceptable, but the other reporter lingered over Neil's grave for a few moments. Greg watched her out of a strange curiosity he couldn't place as she kneeled and laid calla lilies on his grave.

With a pang in his tired chest, Greg remembered when Neil had given _him_ calla lilies, and felt horrible that he hadn't brought anything to lay on his lover's grave.

The reporter seemed to feel Greg's gaze because she looked up and their eyes met. She rose to her feet and approached him. Greg immediately wanted to leave. He tugged on Nick's hand.

"Let's go," he whispered, but it was too late, she was already there.

She extended a gloved hand to him formally. "My name is Laura Whittaker, I was Neil's editor at _The Sun_. You must be Greg."

Greg blinked, then nodded, taking her hand. "I thought that busy-looking guy that took off early was his editor."

Laura rolled her eyes. "Oh yes, he's a douchebag. I'm the assistant editor. I signed off on most of Neil's stories, though."

Greg blinked, then looked at Nick, who was watching the conversation with an inscrutable expression on his face. "Um… this is Nick Stokes, he's…" Greg frowned, not knowing what to say.

But Nick covered it, extending a hand to Laura. "A mutual friend. How do you do?"

"OK, considering," Laura replied honestly. "How did you know Neil?"

Nick glanced at his friend. "Greg brought us together."

Laura smiled at Greg. "That's sweet. He always said great things about you."

A chill trickled down Greg's spine. "He… spoke to you about me?"

"Only all the time," Laura laughed. "Have you read his column?"

Greg blanched. "Column? Neil was a Features writer."

"And a good one," Laura agreed. "But over the last few months, he's been writing a column for us. I'm… slightly surprised he didn't tell you."

"What was he writing about?" Greg whispered quietly.

"I've saved them all, if you'd like them," Laura offered. "I have a whole scrap book of them. They're beautiful. He got a lot of letters about them, but I was only in contact with him via e-mail so he never gave me an address to forward them to… You know, he also asked for me to save his paychecks, so I could give them to you after…" She looked over her shoulder at Neil's grave.

Greg was in shock. Even with how sick he was, Neil had still found the time and energy to write a column for _The Sun_ and Greg hadn't even noticed. "The estate sale is on Sunday," Greg muttered, in a slight daze. "Why don't you stop by then?"

Laura nodded. "Yes, that sounds lovely. I haven't been to Neil's house in a long time. I'll bring everything to you there." She grinned. "It really was nice meeting you, Greg."

She was glowing, as if she were meeting some sort of celebrity, and Greg didn't deserve that. "You're sweet, but whatever Neil told you about me—"

"It's not what he told me, honey," said Laura. "It's what he wrote." She winked at him, then nodded politely at Nick. "You boys have a nice day, now."

And she walked away.

Greg's skin was crawling. "He was writing a column…"

"Are you OK?" Nick asked, stepping in front of Greg to look him in the eyes.

"I told him to stop working, but he did it anyway. He just… did it anyway. Because he felt bad that I was paying for everything. He wrote this column to help me get out of debt."

Nick was quiet. He glanced at the ground, then looked up at Greg again. "I don't think it was just about the money, Greg."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… Neil was a journalist. Writing was his thing, wasn't it? I think… it was about leaving something behind."

It was Greg's turn to be quiet. He heard Neil's laughter as clearly as if his lover were there with him at that very moment. But just as quickly as it had come, it subsided, like ocean waves.

How could he close the door on Neil, when this strange woman had just shown him how little he'd really known about his lover?

* * *

Greg sat on the steps of Neil's house, fiddling with his hands, wishing he smoked so he'd at least have something to do, or some excuse to be here outside rather than inside, with all the scavengers. He allowed his liquidator to do most of the work, unable to even set foot in the house that had once been Neil's.

Someone kneeled down in front of him and placed a kind hand on his knee.

"Are you sure there's nothing in there that you want? You can still go in there and take a few things… keepsakes, maybe…"

"No, Nick," Greg whispered, firmly. "I kept the box, and I'm even thinking of getting rid of that. It doesn't help to cling to something that's gone. I have to let him go."

Nick dug into his pocket and pulled something out that glittered in the sunlight and made Greg look up.

"What's that? A Rolex?"

Nick played with a gold watch in his hand and smiled. "Timex. Warrick was too smart to splurge on anything."

Greg's mouth formed a tiny 'o' shape. "You always have that on you?"

"Always," said Nick, meeting Greg's eyes.

Greg stared at the watch. "And it helps you?"

Nick took Greg's hand and placed the watch on his palm, closing Greg's fingers around it and holding tightly to Greg's hand. "Does it help you?"

Greg's hand began to shake and he ripped it away, dropping the watch onto the ground. "Sorry…"

Nick sighed as he picked up the watch and slipped it into his pocket. "It's OK. It's my fault."

"No, you're trying to help," Greg muttered. "And I almost broke Warrick's watch."

"I saw that you put away all his pictures," Nick whispered.

"I didn't have many of Warrick to…" Greg looked up. "Oh." He sighed. "I'll bring them back. When things get… better."

Nick smiled and tiled Greg's chin upwards. "You sound like you don't expect them to."

Greg's shoulders slumped. He opened his mouth to reply when they were interrupted.

"Hello, Greg?"

Greg looked up to see Laura Whittaker beaming at him with a book under her arm. She wore her wavy hair down today as well as a tailored black pinstriped suit with a pink collared shirt. She still had that pen behind her ear. Greg wondered if she ever parted with it.

He rose to his feet to greet her. "Ms. Whittaker."

"Please, call me Laura," she insisted. She gripped the brown leather-bound book with both hands and looked down at it, then up at Greg. "Here it is. Every column he ever wrote in the last three months. Twice a week. Rather impressive, really. He always met his deadline. I've never known Neil to be late." She held out the book for Greg, who stared at it for a moment, this piece of Neil's life that he'd known absolutely nothing about. He took it from her and held it reverently, like a holy text, before hugging it close to his chest and smiling at Laura.

"Thank you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded in understanding, then reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out an envelope. "Neil's paycheck for the last three months. We started him out on thirty dollars a piece, and at a paper like _The Sun_, that's not a bad deal. But when his column drew in some fan mail, I convinced our editor to raise it to fifty dollars a piece. He wanted to do as much as he could to help you, and I wanted to do what I could as well. It's still not very much… about a thousand dollars. But he wanted it to be yours." She smiled and her eyes lit up as she just remembered something. "In fact, if I recall, he specified that you not use it to pay for expenses… but for something for yourself."

In a slight trance, Greg took the envelope. He opened the cover of the scrap book and tucked it in there before closing it. His fingers glided over the smooth leather cover.

"I have the fan mail, too," Laura told him. "Just a couple of letters, but it's more than our veteran columnists get. Would you—"

"I don't need the fan mail, thanks," Greg said, still staring at the book. He looked up at Laura. "You and Neil were pretty close?"

Laura nodded. "We've grown relatively close over the past few years. I'm going to miss him in the news room. He was always so… cheerful, you know? No matter what horrific story we splashed on the front page, he…" She blushed then nodded. "Well… I'll miss him. I've never known another man like him."

Greg nodded. "Go inside," he said. "You'll see a man in an ugly brown suit. Tell him I told you that it was fine to take whatever you wanted."

Laura blinked. "Oh, no. If I wanted anything, I'd pay for it—"

"You were Neil's friend," Greg insisted. "And it would help me to know that not everything he owned will be bought up by strangers."

She put a kind hand on Greg's shoulder. "I see now why he loved you so much," she whispered, before moving into the house.

Greg looked down at the book in his hands again and held it to his chest.

"Do you have to stay here for the whole day?" Nick asked, coming up behind him.

Greg shook his head. "The liquidator should be able to manage things. He's supposed to call me if there's any major sales…"

"Will you let me take you home?"

Greg turned around and looked at Nick with tired eyes. "Will you be there when I wake up?"

Nick could do nothing but offer Greg a small smile.

* * *

Nick had insisted that Greg needed rest, especially as Greg insisted on going to work that evening. So Greg had allowed the Texan to lead him to his bed, and had waited, facing the wall, his eyes wide open to hear the heavy breathing of the man behind him.

When he was sure that Nick had fallen asleep, he crept out from beneath the covers and entered the living room, where he saw the leather scrapbook on the dining room table. He pulled out a chair and opened it to the first page, where Laura had pasted the first two columns.

_Finishing the Race_, read the heading, _by Neil Cooper_. A picture of a smiling man sat right beneath it, but it didn't look like the person who had written this column. The person who had written this column had been skinny and frail, with sunken eyes and a collapsed septum and gray lips and thin hair… thin, curly blond hair…

Greg closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it, staring again at the healthy photo of his old lover. In actuality, it didn't look like the photo was that old. But it had definitely been taken before Neil had gotten sick. He was beaming at the camera, with one hand against his cheek, supporting his head, pushing the skin slightly upwards. It gave him a rather playful, goofy look, which was a testament to his character. Greg remembered when he could still pull off that look. He tried to smile like Neil was, like there was nothing in the world that couldn't be improved with a joke and a game of Mario Kart, but the smile quickly faded.

Greg began to read the column.

_There are diseases in the world that will blindside you like car crashes. They can be fatal in the sneakiest of ways. The trick is not to let that happen. A diagnosis, even a fatal one, can only take away your life if you let it. You still have time left to set everything right. To do the things you always wanted to do. To be with the people you want to be with._

_My life is brief. I'm not even forty and I'm dying, but still that's more than some people get, people who are better than me. It's not that I don't want more, it's just that I'm glad that I didn't have any less. This disease struck me at a point in my life when I have been the happiest in years, because for the first time since my parents died, I know that I'm not alone. I've never been very good at getting close to people, which is probably why I don't have very many friends, but there is one person I know I can always count on, because he loves me with everything he has._

_Despite the title of this column, life isn't so much a race as it is an expedition. It should by no means be sped through, but explored. Still, the metaphor fits in other ways. So many people pace themselves at the beginning that when the end is in sight, they pick up speed, thinking they are running out of time. But you should have been sprinting the whole length of it, with the wind whipping at your face and your heart jumping and the adrenaline pumping… You should have been running as fast as you could, because you have no idea how long the track is._

_My race is coming to an end. Like most races, it's mostly with myself. The point is, I'm proud to say that I haven't been coasting this whole time. Are there chances I should have taken but didn't? Sure, there are always those. But for the most part, I went and did what I wanted with my life. I took the risks that mattered, and in general they paid off. But I know that some people like to keep cautious. I know that some are afraid that the risks they take today could ruin them tomorrow. And to them, I say, maybe it's time to stop worrying so much about tomorrow…_

Greg's fingers ran over the column, trying to draw comfort from the type on the page, pull Neil's ghost out of hiding. He flipped through the columns and noticed that not all of them were as optimistic as his first one. Words and phrases jumped out of him.

_It's not that I'm not scared to die. But sometimes, I'm just so much more petrified of living like this for one more day…_ _I didn't think it would hurt this much… Greg is always there. He puts up with me like a saint, and he will never know what that means… Writing now is a bad idea. It hurts when I breathe… I had a dream where I died last night, and I was in Hell, and Greg was there but he couldn't see me, and he just kept calling my name. And I'm terrified that it's a prophesy of some sort, some place I'll go when I die for being a bad person…_

"You weren't a bad person, Neil," Greg whispered, swallowing to open up his throat. He gripped the edges of the book as a single tear slid down his cheek and stained the page. "Oh God, Neil, why didn't you tell me any of this? You never talked to me about your dreams, you said you'd rather forget them, and here you're spilling your guts to the entire city."

Not all of it was Neil's fears. Some of the optimism contained in his first column still permeated his subsequent ones. Some of them Greg suspected were written to reassure Neil himself more than anything else.

_Greg and I had a real Christmas this year. He even climbed into bed with me and let me hold him. I miss holding him so much… I'm glad I didn't die from that heart attack. It made me realize that there is so much left that I have to say… I wish that every person in the world could have one wish, one that they really needed and wanted so badly, that would be granted. If I had that wish, I could be selfish. I could be selfish and wish to be cured. But I could also wish that Greg really smiles again. He doesn't smile like he used to. He thinks I don't notice, but I can tell it's fake. And I love him all the more for it._

Greg closed the book before he reached the last page of columns. He was shaking so badly that he couldn't turn the pages without tearing them. He wrapped his arms around himself, knowing he should have never even started to read those words, to see Neil's thoughts laid so bare before him. It was too soon, and every word he read, he could hear Neil's voice as if his old lover were sitting across the table from him, confessing everything.

Greg wished so badly that Neil _was_ sitting across the table from him at that moment. But he knew that this was not Neil's ideal world, and no matter how badly he may have wanted or needed it, that wish would never come true.

Regardless, Greg squeezed himself as tight as he could and closed his eyes, trying to focus all his energy, wondering if magic really existed, or if all those powers his grandmother had told him about would finally cut him a cosmic break and give him what he needed. He leaned forward and thought so hard it became words. But that was as far as the wish went.

"Bring him back, please, just bring him back, I need him, I need him here, please, just bring him back… Bring him back, please…"

Greg wasn't aware of it, but his call was not falling on deaf ears. In fact, they fell on very attentive ears, and he realized that when he felt arms drawing him close against a warm body and he threw his own arms around Nick's neck as he half fell out of the chair, his eyes still shut very tight as he spoke loudly now, repeating his wish over and over again in hopes of being heard, in hopes of being understood.

He felt Nick's arm beneath the crook of his knees as the Texan swept him off his feet and carried him back into the bedroom. Greg knew it was happening, and didn't fight it, until Nick laid him on the bed and tried to pull away.

Greg seized his hand and opened his eyes, his ritualistic mutterings suddenly halted and Nick stopped to look at him. For a moment, Greg said nothing at all, and the silence hovered between them like a dark ghost.

"He's not coming back," Greg whispered at last.

Nick kneeled down by the side of the bed and stroked Greg's hair. "No, Greg, he isn't. No matter how many times you ask."

Greg blinked, feeling a tidal wave build in him. "W-what do I do now?"

Nick rose to his feet and walked to the foot of the bed before crawling up beside Greg, who watched him. They faced each other, and Nick's eyes were solemn and soft at the same time.

"You have to let him go, Greg," Nick said, quietly.

"I can't," Greg said, the words coming out as a sob. He gasped and closed his eyes, feeling the tears. "Oh God, no one said it would be this hard…" And then, he couldn't even form words anymore, it all just came out in jolts and Greg didn't even try to stop it this time. He let it out, ready to tear up the bed sheets if he had to, but someone was holding on so tightly to him that he couldn't move his arms the right way, so they went limp and he surrendered to everything, and he let the waves pour out of him in wails that would have made a banshee cover her ears. But this was different than the last time, which had been angry, violent, and brutal. Greg felt the helplessness slip out of him in tears and Nick would not let him go, and at the end of it, when the numbness fell over him, he wasn't alone.

Nick was there.

And it was quiet.


	15. Beyond Our Wildest Dreams

**_Author's Note:_** Nearly done writing this. Almost there. Keep reviewing, love the stuff, you all are fabulous.

Chapter 14: Beyond Our Wildest Dreams

The days dribbled into weeks and Greg trudged through them, managing to continue on. And as he put distance between himself and Neil's funeral, he began to look upon his lover's column as a source of comfort rather than a source of grief. He read them frequently as the weeks passed, drinking in the words like ambrosia and treasuring the scrapbook like a bible. For a long time, Nick slept by his side, and once or twice Greg had considered trying to move on, give Nick what he wanted and reward his friend for his patience, but he still found that he couldn't. He still felt that it would be unfair.

"I think you should go home tomorrow," Greg whispered one day, staring at the ceiling as he lay in bed.

He heard Nick put down his book beside him. "You're sure?"

Greg turned his head to look at him and noticed that Nick's reading glasses had slid down his nose. The Texan was looking at him over the top of them. "Yeah, I am," said Greg.

Nick watched him a moment before he nodded. "If that's what you think is best, Greg."

"It is," Greg assured him. "I do."

_The temptation gets stronger everyday,_ he thought to himself. _But I'm not ready. I can't be ready. Not yet._

Nick said nothing. He just picked up his book, pushed up his glasses and shrugged. "OK, then. I'm gone tomorrow."

Greg stared at him. He had expected more resistance than this. Nick had lived with him for over a month now and he wasn't willing to protest, or say that it was in Greg's best interest that he stayed?

"I mean, you could stay if you like…" Greg said feebly, in an attempt to elicit something from his friend.

"I'll do whatever you want, Greg," Nick said, not taking his eyes away from his book.

Greg rolled over onto his shoulder, facing Nick. "Well, do you want to stay?"

Nick's eyes continued to follow the text in his book. "I want what you want," he mumbled.

"Want something for yourself for a change," Greg spat, angry for no real reason, and he turned around onto his other side, hugged the covers and stared at the wall.

"Is something wrong, Greg?"

"Yeah," Greg grumbled. "Yeah, you're suffocating me."

There was silence and Greg tensed, wishing he could see Nick's face. He heard the book snap closed and Nick sighed.

"I see."

"No, stop saying that," Greg grumbled. "Stop saying that you _see_, that you understand…" He hugged the covers even tighter. "You don't understand anything."

He heard movement on the other side of the bed, and then the light switched off. "I'll be gone tomorrow," said Nick quietly. "You won't even notice me leaving."

And then, they were left in a cold silence and Greg's stomach lurched.

_At least now he'll be leaving,_ he thought bitterly to himself. _You're one smooth talker, Greg Sanders._

* * *

"You're going about it all wrong," Neil said, laughing as he came up behind Greg and gripped his wrist, smoothly stirring the gravy. "You have to keep in constant motion, or else there's clumps." He pecked Greg on the cheek. "You don't want clumps, do you?"

Greg's face flushed red. "Give me a break, I've never done this before."

"Cooking's all chemistry, Greg," Neil said, still guiding Greg's wrist in smooth, circular motions. "I would have thought someone like you would take to it like a duck to water."

"Ducks don't take kindly to water when they first hatch, actually," said Greg.

Neil laughed, and Greg felt it against his back. "Well, that's why I said duck, not _duckling_, didn't I? Which reminds me—have you checked on the bird?"

"How long do they normally cook for?" Greg asked.

"Mm, depends on the bird," said Neil, pulling away slowly. He hit Greg lightly in the hip with a spatula. "Move, you're in my way."

"You're in _my_ way," Greg returned, but stepped to the side at any rate, letting go of the whisk.

"What are you doing?" Neil cried as Greg watched him open the oven. "What did I say about constant motion, Greg!"

"What, I can leave it alone for two seconds while you look at the turkey?" Greg returned.

Neil's lips twitched as he closed the oven door. "Can't even allow yourself two seconds, Greg. You could ruin the whole meal."

Greg's heart lurched. "But what if I need a break."

"You can't afford a break, Greg, you're the head chef now," Neil said, taking up the whisk and stirring. "Unless you want your friend Nick to come in and rescue you. Save the day. Is that it? Would you rather Nick was here, stirring this gravy, instead of me?"

"Shut up…" Greg muttered, rubbing his arms.

"You let go of the whisk, Greg," Neil said, his smile disappearing. "You were doing great. Making the perfect last meal, and then you just let it go. Do you know what happens when you let go of the whisk?"

To demonstrate a point, Neil theatrically took his hand away and let the gravy settle.

"Don't—" Greg began nervously.

The pot began bubbling and soon it boiled over, but what came out wasn't gravy at all, but thick simmering blood which poured over the sides of the pot like a volcano and Neil just stood back and watched.

"I just wanted to give you the perfect meal…" Greg whispered as the blood drizzled onto the floor. He made a dash for the pot and turned off the heat, seizing the whisk so fast he knocked the pot over and the bubbling hot crimson concoction splashed all over his shirt, his jeans, his shoes, and he smelled his flesh burning but couldn't feel anything.

He stared at the blood on his hands, then looked up at Neil, who managed a sad smile.

"Aw, silly," he said. "Now look what you've gone and done?"

Greg's gaze returned to his hands and then refocused to see something bulky and bloody at his feet. The pot of blood had landed on it, drenching it in scorching red and Greg stared right into the glassy eyes set in a porcelain white face.

He nearly choked on his own vomit. "Nick—!"

Greg awoke with a start, breathing rapidly and staring up at his ceiling. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his racing heart. It took a few moments for the goose bumps to disappear, but when they did, Greg turned to the opposite side of his bed.

True to his word, Nick was gone.

Greg heaved a tired sigh, then slowly slipped out from beneath the covers and rubbed the crusty sleep from his eyes. A quick sweep of the bedroom told him that Nick had taken all of his things with him when he had left that evening. Entering the living room, he saw nothing there either. He did find a pot of coffee brewed in the kitchen, but other than that, there was no sign that Nick had been there at all.

Greg poured himself a cup of coffee, then turned around and looked at his empty apartment, suddenly feeling very alone.

But he had asked for this. So he took a sip of his coffee, and tried to be grateful.

* * *

Nick kept his distance from Greg for a while after that, and the younger man knew that it was because he'd used the word 'suffocating' the last time they had spoken. His stomach twisted with the tiniest amount of guilt about that, but he'd been dealing with that emotion for so long that he had become rather adept at dismissing it.

Greg took a deep breath and went in to see Hodges at his microscope, who looked up upon his entrance. He had a smudge of black under his left eye as he scrutinized Greg.

"Do you want something?" he asked bluntly.

Greg wiped his own cheekbone. "You have something…"

Hodges frowned at him, then rubbed beneath his right eye.

"No, other side," said Greg.

Hodges switched sides and rubbed at it. "Baseball earlier today," he said. "Guess I missed some of it."

Greg almost laughed. "You play baseball? Seriously?"

"I'm the best right fielder in our league," said Hodges, holding his head up proudly.

"Sure you are. Is anyone in your league good enough to hit a ball all the way out into right field, or do you just sleep on your feet the whole time?"

"What would you know, Sanders," Hodges spat.

But it made Greg think of something. "Emily Cruise," he said suddenly.

"No, I'm David Hodges," the tech said slowly.

Greg gave him an annoyed look. "I know who you are. No… no, Emily Cruise, from the Connelly case. When we talked to her, she rubbed her eye and smudged chalk on her cheek…" He grinned. "Thanks, Hodges!" he said.

"Well, I don't know what I did, but clearly whatever it was—"

But Greg ran off before he could finish, in search of Nick.

"You're welcome!" he heard Hodges' irritated voice cry after him.

He wheeled around the corner and nearly ran right into Nick, who was talking to Catherine. Both of them looked up at him as he caught his breath.

"Oh good, you're here!" he cried.

"What's up, Greg?" Nick asked, closing a file he had been showing to Catherine.

"Chalk!" Greg exclaimed triumphantly.

Nick and Catherine exchanged looks.

"That sounds like a code word to me," said Catherine. "I'll leave you two to chat."

Nick opened his mouth to protest, but she was already walking away. He turned instead to Greg.

"What about chalk?" he asked.

"Emily Cruise had chalk on her hands when Brass interviewed her," Greg explained.

"Yeah, and?" Nick prompted. "She was teaching a rock climbing class at the time. She was a colleague of—"

"Connelly's ex-wife's new husband! Richard Davies!" Greg finished for him. "She was never a suspect because she never knew Connelly, right? And she was the one who told Brass that Mr. and the new Mrs. Davies were in Hawaii, am I right?"

"You are," said Nick. "But I still don't see how chalk makes her a suspect. Just because there was some at the scene—"

"When she said Davies' name," Greg went on. "She didn't call him Richard, like everyone else. She called him Ricky. _ Ricky_."

"So?"

"The only other person who ever called him _Ricky_ was his wife," Greg told him. "Emily was in love with him."

"Ah…" Nick said, beginning to understand. "You think she was having an affair with Davies?"

"Maybe so, maybe not, the point is, he didn't marry her, did he?" Greg said. "He married Maggie Connelly. That's gotta burn a girl, don't you think?"

"Yeah, maybe," Nick agreed.

"So you said yourself that the newlyweds were in Hawaii, right?" Greg breathed. "And yet, evidence _blaming_ them came up everywhere, didn't it? What better way to punish the both of them? Take away her ex-husband, and frame them both for murder?!"

"So she had nothing against Connelly at all…" Nick muttered. "He was just—"

"A necessary casualty," Greg finished for him, way too excited than was probably healthy. He seized Nick's arms. "We've got it, Nicky!"

A small smile took over Nick's features and his eyes almost sparkled. His arms rose beneath Greg's. "Yeah, we've got it."

Greg's smile faded, and he suddenly pulled away from Nick, his eyes darting around in the hallways. "I'm sorry. I just got a little overexcited."

Nick gave a small chortle, but then there was a strange awkward silence that nestled between them. Nick took a deep breath. "Greg, I know you said that I was—"

"No," Greg interrupted. "Please, I just… don't want to talk about that here."

"I just wanted to say—"

"Don't say anything," Greg interrupted.

"Is it so wrong of me to say that—"

"Nick," Greg said sharply.

The Texan paused. "I miss you," he finished.

Greg chewed on his lip and looked down. He fiddled with his hands. "I just… think that I should try being alone for a while, you know? I can't… I haven't been. Alone, I mean. Not for a long time, and when Neil…" He looked up sharply. "When Neil died, it was… impossible. For me to stay alone. I needed you. I can't keep depending on you, Nick."

The Texan smiled. "Does that mean you miss me too?"

Warmth flooded Greg's body and he shrugged. "Maybe a little. But I think this is good for me. To remember how to live by myself for a while, without someone holding my hand."

Nick nodded. "Yeah. I think you're right."

* * *

Greg crouched down on his favorite outcropping, watching the sun set over the curve of the earth way out there in the desert. He had fond memories of this place. Things were peaceful here, and it allowed him to think. The last time he'd come here, Neil had been alive, and he had found solace in the vastness. It soothed him greatly and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Someone knelt down beside him and cast a stone over the edge of the cliff.

"We have got to stop meeting like this."

Greg nodded absently. "You're back."

"I never left."

Greg fiddled with his hands. "No, you didn't, did you?" He looked out across the barren orange desert and saw dark clouds bloom out of the horizon like foreboding flowers from snow. "I read your column."

Beside him, Neil sighed. "I wrote it for you."

"No, you didn't," said Greg. "You said things there that you never told me about. You said that… you said you knew I loved you."

"I always knew, Greg," said Neil. "So did Nick. The only person who didn't know it was you."

Greg nodded. "This is a dream, isn't it?"

"Well, I hardly think you believe in ghosts," Neil replied. "I suppose that a dream is probably the best explanation."

Greg watched as the clouds cloaked the sky, consuming the sun. "Most of my dreams aren't this quiet. Not the ones with you in them, at any rate."

"Well, then, I suppose that's an argument for the 'not a dream' option," said Neil.

"It's a dream," Greg whispered. "I may be having nightmares lately, but there's no way that real life could ever feel this perfect."

"Oh, there's a way," Neil assured him, also watching the spreading clouds. "You just won't let yourself see it."

Greg frowned, then turned away from the horizon to stare at Neil. "What are you talking about?"

"It's the same old dance, isn't it?" Neil returned with a wry smile, his eyes still on the expanding clouds. "You're behaving exactly the same way you did with me. Playing hard to get. Refusing to admit anything. Keeping cautious. Making calculated choices. Honestly, Greg, did my death teach you nothing?"

Greg slowly shook his head. "Sense is starting to fade… Yup, this is definitely a dream."

Neil let out a loud guffaw. "You won't ever learn. I think it's fairly apparent that you're so damn set in your ways, you'll never see the chances that are presented to you, and you'll never seize them. I guess if you're happy with the way things are, then so am I. I'm happy if you are." Neil rose to his feet and nodded at the horizon. "Storm's a-brewing. You might want to grab your umbrella."

He smiled, and just as he did, the clouds broke and Greg was doused with a heavy deluge of icy water which successfully soaked him thoroughly. He tried to navigate his way in the sudden rain and lost his balance, falling over the edge of the cliff and into a deep ocean where he struggled to swim his way to the surface. It was dark above, with the occasional crack of lightning, but he swam anyway, as fast as he could, trying to break the surface.

When he finally did, it was with a gasp of air and he blinked and squinted until he saw trees in the distance, and a shoreline where there was a dock, and someone was waving at him with flares in their hands. Greg headed towards it, swimming freestyle, one hand over the other, his legs kicking like a boat engine. It took what felt like forever, but he kept swimming, faster and faster. He still couldn't make out who the shadow waving at him was, but something caught his foot and pulled him beneath the surface so fast, he didn't have time to swallow any air, and he spluttered as his lungs contracted and burned, his chest feeling heavy, his eyes closed…

When Greg's eyes opened, he was drenched in icy sweat which saturated his sheets. His mouth opened and closed as he stared at the ceiling, gulping down mouthfuls of sweet, fresh air. He felt as if he actually _had_ fallen into some murky body of water, and he certainly had the goose bumps to prove it.

The dream was still vivid in his mind's eye, which was rare. Generally, Greg only remembered bits and pieces of his dreams, but this… he recalled every word, every detail, every drop of rain…

He sat up and then bent over, burying his face in his hands. These dreams were bad. They generally warned him of tragedies to come, but they were never specific. The last time he'd had a dream like this had been a few days before Warrick was shot. He had ignored it then, because the only time his dreams had been that vivid before was before his grandmother's death years ago, and he dismissed it as a fluke. But twice in a row, something had tried to tell him of impending doom, and here was a third dream, unmistakable in its point, and Greg couldn't ignore it this time.

He wouldn't.


	16. With the Sharks

**_Author's Note:_** Again, I'll have to cancel the update on Wednesday. Expect the next installment on Friday, though. Apologies for the quote. It's what happens when iTunes is on while I'm writing.

Chapter Fifteen: With the Sharks

_Your star is due for shooting and I'll be watching the night sky,  
In hopes by then what binds us has come untied._  
-- Anthony Rapp

Much to Greg's relief, the entire next day went off without a hitch. Nothing out of the ordinary or particularly tragic occurred that day, if one discounted the smothered little girl. But that sort of thing was far beyond Greg's control, and it definitely hadn't been the danger the dream had been warning him about.

Regardless, Greg was on edge for the rest of the day. Every time someone spoke unexpectedly, it made him jump. And Nick's query was no exception.

"You OK?"

Greg jolted, his coffee spilling over the edge of his mug. He turned to face Nick who had a half-smile on his face, but his eyes were narrowed. "Dammit, don't _do_ that!"

"I think you've had a little too much caffeine," Nick suggested, taking the mug from Greg's hands. "You've been like this all day."

"Just a little jumpy is all," Greg explained. "Bad dream."

Nick's smile faded altogether. "Oh, right."

"No, not that kind of dream!" Greg snapped, annoyed that Nick thought he knew everything about Greg's mental health. "It wasn't about Neil."

"Really?" Nick seemed impressed, and his smile gradually returned to his features. "That's the first time you've said his name in a while. Without stuttering, at least."

Greg sighed. "Shut up. And give me back my coffee!"

Instead of agreeing, Nick simply took a sip from the mug himself. "So what _was_ your dream about?"

Greg realized he had lied when he'd said it hadn't been about Neil. "Er… Nothing. Never mind. That's my coffee you're drinking, you know."

"I was under the impression that you'd lost your taste for coffee," said Nick, taking another sip. "Every time I offered it to you—"

"You used coffee as a cure-all, which it isn't. Now can I have mine back?"

"If I used it as a cure-all, what are you using it for?"

Greg scowled as Nick smirked and took another sip out of Greg's mug. "Fine. Keep the coffee. I have work to do. A little girl was killed today, you know." He knew that would wipe that smug smile right off Nick's face.

And it did. Nick swallowed and lowered the mug. "Yeah, Riley told me. How's that coming?"

"We have a handful of leads we could pursue," Greg told him. "How's your case with Catherine coming?"

"Well," Nick replied. "We arrested someone today."

"Good for you," Greg said, then shifted uncomfortably. He was beginning to notice that all of his conversations with Nick had grown substantially more awkward ever since Greg had kicked the older man out of his apartment. He chewed on his lip and rocked back and forth on his feet. "Well, I should go see Riley about that case…"

He turned to leave and Nick caught his arm. "Greg, we should talk."

"I thought you knew everything about me already," Greg returned coldly.

Nick's face fell. "How could I? You never tell me anything anymore. Not since that night when you snuck off to read Neil's column."

Greg nodded. "OK. Well, what do you want me to say, Nick?"

"I know you have issues with the bad feelings," Nick went on. "Neil noticed it too. When everything is great, you're cheerful and goofy, but when things get bad you become… reserved and dismissive. Do you regret that I left? Do you want me to come back?"

Greg stared at him a moment and blinked a few times. "Do you really want to know what I want, Nick?" he asked, moving closer. "I mean do you _really_ want to know?"

Nick took a step backwards, but nodded confidently even as Greg approached. "It'll help me know what to do when it comes to you, because right now I'm completely lost." He stopped as he hit the wall, and Greg's arm shot out beside his head but Nick didn't even flinch.

Greg smiled. "I want… what I can't have, Nick. I always have. So I'm dealing with it."

A gray hue overtook Nick's features. "You want Neil."

Greg sighed and shook his head. He almost laughed. "No, Nick. Not this time." He withdrew his hand and turned to walk out of the room. He felt Nick's eyes like needles in his back.

"Then why can't you have what you want?" Nick called after him.

Greg paused in the doorway, his hand flying to the frame. "Because it still isn't fair," he replied. "Not yet. Give it time."

And then, he disappeared out the door.

* * *

Greg found himself struggling in the obsidian water again, searching for the shore, swimming to the shadow with the flares. And as he swam, he heard a voice chattering in his head that he couldn't ignore.

_No one can get close to you without the risk of freezing._

Greg closed his eyes and continued in his pursuit of the shoreline, hands flailing in a windmill motion, in and out of the choppy water which splashed around him.

_You let me see parts of you that you'd never revealed to anyone before, but still, you hid other things. I saw through them anyway. And that's why you were so scared._

Greg gave a strong kick, hoping the splashing might silence the echoes in his head. He gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply before plunging his face into the murky black again.

_You still take me to bed. Confess everything, cut yourself open and leave yourself raw and vulnerable, your heart ripe for the picking, but it's not mine to take. Not anymore._

Greg stopped swimming to catch his breath and stared at the shore, squinting. It didn't seem any closer than it was when he'd first started, but the figure was still waving at him. He tried to decide if it was a masculine or feminine shape, but it was still too far away to tell. In the waves, he thought someone might be yelling, but he couldn't hear who it was.

_What good is a beating heart to a ghost, at any rate?_

Greg started swimming again, hand over hand, legs kicking mechanically, though it seemed to be getting harder and harder. Tears streaked his face, but they were washed away so quickly that Greg didn't even notice. He continued to swim.

_Swim faster, or you'll miss the show._

There was a strange, sucking sound, and then the echoing in his head evaporated and the splashing of the water around him increased tenfold. It was still raining, and the rain agitated the choppy waves, which splashed over him, threatening to claim him. He swam faster, always swimming faster, trying to see the person, finally making out a shape, drawing closer to the docks to see a heap of something at the shadow's feet that Greg couldn't distinguish. He kept swimming, drawing closer and closer, until—

A grating buzzing interrupted the sound of the waves and Greg opened his eyes and cursed loudly as he turned to his alarm clock which was blinking at him and singing like a chorus of crickets. Greg slammed his hand on top of it and growled, closing his eyes and trying to find the dream again, but it was too far away from him now. It had floated on, out into the ether, even though Greg _knew_ there was something important on that dock, something necessary for him to see, and now, it was all gone.

Grumbling, he went in to work.

* * *

Greg sat in the locker room and shuffled through his mail. Junk mail, junk mail, letter from Mom—Greg suspected that it would probably wiser to read that at home—junk mail, utilities bill, second utilities bill—_That's right_, Greg thought, _I'm late on that check, dammit_.—junk mail, rent check reminder, loan reminder—

_Shit_.

Greg had been trickling money into the bank, the minimum payment, just to keep them off his back, as funds were still tight. Everything he got from the estate sale had completely covered the funeral, with a little left over to send off to the bank, but he still had a lot to pay off. And the thousand dollars Neil had received for his column was just pennies in that massive piggy bank.

Greg knew he should have felt guilty that he had spent Neil's last paycheck on his debts, rather than splurging on himself, but he really couldn't afford that at the moment. It would have been fiscally irresponsible. He promised himself that the moment he paid off all his debts, he would buy something with a thousand dollars in Neil's name. Maybe he'd start a scholarship fund for journalists. Greg smiled at the thought. Then he saw the second utilities bill and his mood darkened.

He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. It was almost April. Rent was due, he had two utilities bills to pay, and another loan payment coming up. He remembered his salary and tried to calculate how much that left over for food and luxuries.

He sighed as he realized that he'd be living off Ramen for the next month. And he would probably have to sacrifice his Blue Hawaiian. But none of that mattered, really. _After April, things should smooth out, _Greg assured himself. _It's only because I'd used the money for utilities to meet the loan payment at the beginning of March. But by May, things should be a little less rocky._ At least, that's what Greg hoped.

He heard someone enter and looked up, simultaneously getting to his feet and shoving all his mail into his locker.

"Hey there, hot shot." Riley greeted him with a smile.

Greg returned it with a nod. "How's it going?"

"Things are pretty good," Riley returned. "Are we still on for that… thing today?"

For a moment, Greg wondered if he had made plans with Riley and had forgotten about them. "Thing?"

She moved her eyebrows up and down twice. "Yeah, you know… that thing?" She leaned in closer. "That birthday thing?"

"It's your birthday?!" Greg cried.

"What?" Riley laughed. "No! And hush, Henry might hear you."

And then, Greg suddenly remembered. "Oh, right. Birthday surprise. Great."

She nodded at the door. "Follow me. I have Archie on distraction detail. The rest of us are setting up in the lounge."

Greg followed her out, kicking himself for forgetting the surprise birthday party that he himself had suggested several weeks ago. His mind was elsewhere. On Nick, on money, on Neil, on those crazy dreams… There hadn't been space enough in his head to fit even the tiniest reminder about Henry's birthday.

Following Riley into the lounge, he flashed back to December, when Nick had led him here for the impromptu Christmas party and wondered if Archie would bring Henry here in a similar fashion. To be honest, Greg wasn't looking forward very much to jumping out and yelling 'Surprise!' but he did want to do something special for Henry.

He caught Nick's eye as the Texan set some Styrofoam cups next to the coffeemaker, but then quickly looked away. As the days passed, he and Nick had seemed to grow more and more distant, and Greg knew that it was entirely his doing. He had alienated Nick by pushing him away, because he had felt himself falling too fast, and every night Neil would scold him in his dreams for it.

And then, it occurred to him. Lately, Neil _hadn't_ been warning him against falling in love with Nick. Greg's more recent dreams included Neil in a far less threatening capacity. He had the sinking feeling that Neil kept trying to tell him something, but was unable to do so, or didn't know how. His nose twitched as he considered his strange dreams again, feeling that something dark lay just beyond the horizon, only he couldn't see what it was.

"Places!" Riley whispered with the tiniest giggle next to him.

The lights went out, but Greg didn't move until someone tugged on his hand, pulling him behind the couch. He snapped out of his trance to see Nick staring right at him.

"How are you doing?" Nick whispered urgently, as if the answer were a matter of life and death.

"Quiet, Henry'll hear you," Greg returned, avoiding the question.

"You look pale," Nick uttered. "And you have bags under your eyes, which are bloodshot like a hound dog's. You haven't been sleeping, have you?"

Greg glared at him. "I sleep fine, thanks."

"Greg, you can still talk to me," Nick insisted. "Even if you don't want—"

"Now's not the time to talk about this," Greg cut him off. "I'll deal with it later, OK? I told you, just give me a little space. I know you miss me, but I—"

"SURPRISE!"

The lights turned on and Greg looked up, realizing that he and Nick had both missed their cue. Both of them leapt up from behind the couch and managed an awkward shrug.

Henry was flabbergasted. His eyes were double their normal size and a wide smile was spread across his features. He looked like a kid who had just opened the present he'd been wanting all year on Christmas morning.

"What—you guys did this for me?"

Greg realized he sounded far more grateful than Greg had sounded at Christmas.

"It was Greg's idea," said Riley with a proud smile.

Henry's attention turned to Greg and his cheeks grew a shade redder. "Really?"

Greg shrugged, uncomfortably. "Well, I heard today was your birthday, and you're a guy who deserves a big celebration." Greg thought that sounded too impersonal. How could he make it better? "I mean, you do a lot around here, Henry, and I just wanted you to know…" He took Henry's hand with both of his and shook it vehemently. "It doesn't go unnoticed. Really, it doesn't."

The smile faded from Henry's face. He leaned forward until his lips were next to Greg's ear. "This is because I gave you the money, isn't it?" he whispered nervously. "That's the only reason you're doing this."

"No!" Greg protested, though inside, he felt his stomach flip with guilt. "No, Henry, that's not why. It's because…" He swallowed. If it hadn't been a small gesture to thank Henry for the large sum of money he had donated to Neil's cause, then why _had_ Greg planned the party?

His hesitation was all Henry needed, and the lab tech gave a half shrug. "Oh, that's OK. I understand. And I'm glad you found a way to feel better about it. I know you didn't want to take it, and you've been acting so funny around me since I gave it to you that I hope you don't anymore."

"I won't," Greg assured him. "I mean, I wasn't even aware that I was. I mean…" He tried to think back on when he had last spoken to or been around Henry, but every time he dealt with the lab techs these days the memories just faded away, as if they were unmemorable, and Henry was the least significant of the bunch. He closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely before opening his eyes.

But Henry was grinning again. "No, this is great! Really! Best birthday ever. My parents never had time. I generally spent my birthdays with the nanny of the month." He grasped Greg's shoulder. "I'm glad we're friends, Greg."

At his words, Greg realized how much he'd been neglecting _all_ of his friends lately, and not just Henry. He swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced around the room. Archie was telling some wild story to a skeptical Hodges and an enthralled Riley. Wendy and Mandy were whispering conspiratorially in the corner, their eyes locked on Hodges. Langston was talking to Brass by the door, and Nick was telling something to Catherine, whose eyes were narrowed and arms were crossed. Greg's gaze lingered on that couple, watching as Catherine nodded and her eyes grew even narrower with every word Nick told her.

"… not exactly considered super cool, because, I mean, I was a D&D geek who believed in conspiracy theories, but that's OK because this isn't high school. People take time to get to know you here, and not just brush you off thinking you're not worth their time."

Greg blinked as he refocused on Henry and realized he had missed half of the monologue.

"That's important, isn't it?" Henry asked, his eyes bright. He didn't even seem the least bit suspicious that Greg's attention was elsewhere. "Taking the time to get to know people. To care about them. To let them help you out, from time to time? You get that, I know you do. I see you, the way you talk to Nick and Wendy and everyone. It's a give and take. And I've seen you give, and give, and give, Greg, but you're not too proud to take help when it's offered."

Greg managed a twisted smile that he hoped didn't betray the nausea that was rising in his stomach. "Yeah… You're right, Henry."

"You proved that," Henry went on. "It really meant a lot to me that you accepted my gift, Greg. It really makes me happy that you let me help you. It helped me know, for sure, that we really are friends, aren't we?" He seemed startled that he'd said that. "I mean, you know, not that I needed _proof_ or anything, it was just… comforting." He smiled just for the sake of it.

It was in that moment that Greg realized that the significance of Henry's gift meant something completely different to the eager lab tech than it did to Greg, and suddenly, the CSI didn't feel so guilty anymore. He recalled the card Henry had given him. _Don't tear up the check, it would really hurt my feelings._ "You're… glad that I took your money?" he asked, just to clarify.

Henry nodded rapidly. "Oh, definitely! I mean, what good is money if you can't use it to help your friends?"

A smile slowly spread across Greg's face and he nodded. And then, without warning, he pulled Henry into a tight hug. He felt the lab tech laugh in his embrace.

"You're a really good person, Henry," Greg said. "A little oblivious, a little paranoid, but that's not what's important." He pulled away, so he could look Henry in the eyes. "I'm really glad that we're friends, too. Don't know what I'd do without you." And he meant it. And this time, he wasn't just saying it about Henry's money.

* * *

"Hit me," Neil dared with a challenging smile, boxing gloves on.

But Greg shook his head. "I can't."

"You won't get it unless you can hit me," Neil said. "I'm not made of glass, Greg, I won't break."

"But you'll bruise," Greg told him. "You'll bleed. You'll be—"

"Marred," Neil interrupted. "Tell me, Greg, is keeping me perfect worth ruining your life? Hit me."

Greg gritted his teeth and gathered his resolve. Still, when he threw the punch, he stopped short of Neil's cheek, and his old flame didn't even flinch.

"So you don't get it," Neil said. "What do you expect? You won't be able to see it unless you can _hit_ me. Bruise me. Break me. _Do it_."

"No!" Greg yelled, stripping off his gloves and throwing them on the mat. "No, you're not some glass idol that needs to be shattered, you're—" He stopped and looked up at Neil, who was no longer wearing his gloves either but dressed in the suit they had buried him in.

"You know what you have to do, Greg," Neil said quietly. "You'll never understand it until you do it."

"I loved you so much," Greg whispered.

"And he loves you more," Neil returned.

"Not true," Greg said, shaking his head vehemently. "Not possible."

Neil smiled, that classic, reassuring smile Greg remembered from all the times Neil had picked up the shattered pieces of his lover's life. "It's me, Greg. I'm clouding your judgment. You have to get rid of me. You have to let me go. Until you do, you'll never understand it."

"I don't understand _anything_ anymore, Neil," Greg returned. "Not without you."

Neil sighed and gave him a sympathetic look. "You have to let go of your fear, Greg. Become the shark. Chase the minnow. If you don't, you'll surely drown."

And with those words, Greg was in the water again, which was choppier than ever, the waves crashing over him and he wondered for the first time if it was an ocean. The stars were bright above him, and he saw the familiar shoreline, with trees scattered behind it, and the old dock. The shadow was still there, but it no longer held any flares. Greg had to go on instinct alone, often losing his way, as he swam towards the docks with everything he had, determined to once and for all see what was waiting for him there.

The water fought him all the way, and with every stroke it felt as if it were solidifying into an amorphous solid, making it more and more difficult for him to make any progress, but he screwed up his face with effort and pressed through it, pushing back the solidified water that was far too hot to be ice. At first, it was like swimming through rubber cement. His whole body was spread thin enough as it was, but then it was like charging through solid granite. Still, in his dreams, Greg was a superhero, and he carved at the rock like a glacial river, sculpting the landscapes of future mountains and valleys.

The irony of the situation was that was so hard this time, that Greg was almost certain he would succeed. Nothing would wake him, and nothing would distract him, not Neil, or finances, or anything. And then, with one last, massive stroke he found himself at the edge of the dock. He pulled himself up onto it and with a flash of lightning, recognized the person who stood there, as well as the heap that laid at his feet.

Greg stared at himself blankly. The dreamer took in this image of his dream-self which stood before him on the dock. Both of them were soaked to the bone, but the one that stood on the dock had the most striking, twisted expression on his face reminiscent of a gothic gargoyle.

Greg's dream-self was staring at the heap as if he were on fire. His face was contorted into an expression of such deep agony that it was painful even to look at him. He fell to his knees and gathered the heap up in his arms, which the dreamer quickly recognized as a body.

"No, no, no, no, no…" his dream-self was saying, clutching the back of the corpses head and holding it over his shoulder. He cradled the thing as if it were a child, though it laid as limp as a ragdoll. And still, Greg's dream-self kept murmuring, "no, no, no, no, _no_!" as if saying it enough times would make any sort of difference.

Water already soaked his face, but the dreamer was nearly positive that not all of it was the rain's fault. His dream-self's eyes were swollen red, his face the gauntest shade of white Greg thought was normally reserved only for ghosts. He began to rock back and forth, kissing the temple of the corpse, whispering into its hair…

"I'm sorry, so sorry, please, Nicky, I'm sorry, you can't leave me here alone, not now, not like this, not _again_, not again…"

Something crashed into the dock, sending a massive tremor through it and knocking the dreamer into the water. He turned around in time to see a fin heading straight for him.

_Become the shark_, a voice echoed in his head, _or be eaten._


	17. Past His Patience

**_Author's Note:_** MAJOR apologies for this latest of late updates. I got distracted, and I stalled, and then I thought I had the chapter, but I didn't, so I had to have LaughableBlackStorm (my beautiful beta) re-send it to me, and it was all a fiasco. I hate missing deadlines, even if they are deadlines that I set for myself. Here's the long-awaited chapter sixteen. Hope it was worth the wait...

Chapter Sixteen: Past His Patience

Greg almost crashed his car on the way into work the next day. By the time he actually reached the office, he was running at full speed. The first person he saw was Catherine, who told him to slow down. He skidded to a halt in front of her.

"Where's Nick?" he panted.

"You just missed him," she replied, mystified. "He's on his way out the door to a scene—"

He didn't let her finish. He whirled around on his heal and doubled back to the lobby right as he saw Nick and Riley passing through the front doors. He screamed Nick's name so loudly that everyone in the room stopped.

"Greg!" Nick hissed, swiftly striding towards him as Riley maintained her curious stare. "What is the matter with you?"

"I get it!" Greg exclaimed madly, gripping Nick's shoulders. "Nick, I finally get it, I know what my dreams have been trying to tell me! It's you! It's always been you!"

"Greg, what's—"

"Don't ask questions," Greg interrupted. "Nick, please, you have to listen to me. Where's your scene?"

Nick was baffled, but humored him. "Some house out in Whitney, why?"

"Is there a pool?"

"How the hell should I know, I've never been there before," Nick returned.

"Well, if there is a pool, stay away from it," Greg insisted. "Stay the _fuck_ away from it, OK, just keep your feet firmly planted on solid ground, do you hear me, Nick? Don't go near the water, not for _anything_, OK?"

Concern furrowed Nick's brow and he brushed the back of his hand against Greg's forehead. "Greggo, are you feeling OK? I told you, you've been looking pale the last few days, maybe you should lie down—"

"No," Greg insisted. "No, listen to me, I may be a shitty palm reader, but this is the third dream I've had like this in my entire _life_! I didn't understand it the first time, and the second time I thought that coincidences couldn't possibly happen twice, but this time, _this time_, I know, I _know_ what's going on, and the fact that I know means I can stop it, I mean, why _show_ me if I'm not able to stop it? So you have to let me stop it, OK, Nick? OK?!"

"OK!" Nick cried, visibly alarmed. "But Greg, you have to tell me what's going on."

At Nick's agreement, Greg calmed down a little, and nodded. His eyes darted to Riley who was still watching them, then back to Nick. He swallowed, then beckoned Nick closer. The Texan leaned forward.

"You'll drown," Greg said evenly and quietly. "You'll drown if you don't listen to me. I don't know when, I don't know where, I don't know why, I just know that you will. You will, and I can't let that happen, so just do me a favor and say that you will stay away from bodies of water of all kinds." He stopped to think. "_Especially_ the ocean."

"Greg, when am I going to go to the ocean?" Nick asked. "How do you know this, anyway?"

Greg took even breaths. "Nick… I know you don't believe in this sort of thing. Neil didn't believe in it either…" He took both of the Texan's hands and eyed the palms of them. "But that doesn't mean it can't be real, right? And if it's not, it's not like you have anything to lose. So just humor me and stay away from water."

"You haven't told me how you know this," Nick said.

Greg let go of one of the hands and traced Nick's lifeline on his right hand. "Yes, I have. I told you. I dreamed it."

Nick's palm was course and calloused. It wasn't the smooth, traveler's hand that Neil had. It was larger, and rougher, and… warmer. His fingertips moved over the grooves etched into his palm. He looked for a break in the lifeline. He looked desperately hard. He saw a few deviations from the line… There were several lines intersecting it, and it forked at one point near his thumb, but came together again. He looked for the telltale signs. He looked for anything at all. The lines were troublesome, especially the one that formed a star on Nick's lifeline, and Greg wasn't sure what event the fork in it symbolized… Nick had been through quite a bit in life, but he'd survived it all so far. The frustrating part was, Greg couldn't determine if Nick's palm was telling him the past or the future.

"What do you see?" Nick whispered.

Greg looked up. "I don't know," he replied. "I know the dream thing sounds silly, but—"

"Look at my palm," Nick instructed. "Does it tell you I'm going to die tonight?"

Greg looked down again, his eyes moving over the line again and again. Despite the intersections, the star, and the fork, the line was deep and well-defined, and best of all, long. It wasn't short, or faded, or broken, at least not that Greg could see.

"No," he said quietly.

Nick took his hand back. "So there, you see?" he said, reassuringly. "I'll be just fine." He turned and nodded at Riley. "Let's go."

"I didn't see the break in Neil's line until it was too late," Greg called out when Nick was at the door again.

The Texan paused. Greg wished he could see Nick's expression. He heard Riley say in a stage whisper, "Who's Neil?"

Nick turned around and approached Greg again, taking both hands in his and squeezing them tightly. "I'm not Neil," he said. "And I'm not going to die tonight. OK?"

Greg stared at him a moment, and then found himself desperately embracing him, his fists gathering up Nick's shirt as he clung as tightly to the older man as he could. Though surprised at first, Nick returned the embrace and stroked Greg's back, breathing into his hair.

"Don't leave me," Greg whimpered.

"I won't," Nick said. "I promise. Now will you let me go?"

Greg released him, then tried to gather what was left of his dignity as he straightened out his shirt. He nodded at Nick, then turned to Riley. "Keep him away from the water!" he ordered.

She managed a sad, if a little confused, smile. "Yes, boss."

Greg looked at Nick and nodded again. "OK," he said. "You can go." He watched Nick turn to leave and did not take his eyes off of him until he disappeared around the corner. He closed his eyes and sighed, the tension melting away.

He hoped he hadn't sounded too crazy.

He considered his tone, the way Nick had held him, the way he had reassured him… almost like a father reassuring a child that there were no monsters under the bed. But fathers don't believe in monsters, so how would they know?

It sent a chill down Greg's spine. He knew that Nick didn't believe him. He knew that Nick only promised to stay away from water to keep Greg calm.

This didn't bother Greg as much as he'd thought it would. All he hoped was that Nick cared enough about him to keep his promise.

* * *

"This is simple," Nick said, looking at the wrecked house. "It's staged."

"You think?" Riley chimed, scanning the room.

Nick glanced at the teenager with his mother, talking to Detective Vega outside the sliding glass doors where the patio was. "What kind of burglar breaks into a house to steal a cell phone and a bottle of tequila?"

"Not just any cell phone," said Riley. "An iPhone. Those things'll catch you a pretty penny."

"Still," Nick said, eying the untouched HD Flat screen that hung on the wall. "There are easier and better things to steal. The kid is making up a story to explain to his mother how he either lost or broke his cell phone, and where all her tequila went." His phone went off. He smiled at Riley. "Hang on a sec." He held the phone to his ear. "Nick Stokes."

"Nicky, I need you down at the Lake Mead Marina, how soon can you get here?" came Catherine's voice.

"Uh…" Nick looked at his watch. "Well, if I leave now, maybe… forty minutes?"

"Perfect, I'm going to be there in an hour as soon as I get done with some of this paperwork. Brass'll brief you when you get there. It's messy."

Nick frowned. "How messy?"

"Messy enough. But nothing you and I can't handle." He heard the smile in her voice. "You sure Riley can manage there without you?"

Nick looked over his shoulder at the young CSI, who was holding a picture frame and examining a crack in the glass. "I'll ask, but I think she'll do fine. See you soon."

"New scene?" Riley guessed when Nick hung up, tilting her head to the side as she continued to stare at the picture frame.

"Lake Mead Marina," Nick said. "Catherine says it's messy."

Riley spun around so fast, her ponytail whipped against her cheek. "Lake Mead?"

"Yeah, Brass is waiting," Nick said, gathering up his kit.

Riley shifted her weight onto one foot and began to ring out her hands, anxiously. "What are you going to tell Greg?"

Nick stopped moving, his kit lying open on the floor. "Oh, man, I forgot about that…" he said. He shrugged it off and closed the kit. "He'll get over it."

Riley pursed her lips. "Nick, I don't think you should go."

Nick smiled at her. "Since when were _you_ the superstitious type?"

She glared at him. "I'm not superstitious, but I can see the future, and right now it includes a very annoyed Greg Sanders. What do you think he'll say when he finds out that you didn't keep your promise?"

Nick gave her a helpless look and shrugged. "So what do you want me to do, Riley? Call up Catherine and say I can't go because Greg had a dream?"

"What's the matter with you?" Riley asked, her eyebrows knitting together. "A few weeks ago, you were falling all over yourself to figure out was wrong with Greg, but lately it seems like you can't get far enough away from him. I saw you at Henry's party. You spoke to him once all night, and you were all stiff and formal about it. And now, you aren't even willing to follow a simple request of his?"

Nick gaped, unaware that Riley had been so observant. "What have you been doing, stalking me?"

She folded her arms and gave him an irritated look out of the tops of her eyes. "Lately, you and Greg have been caught in some vortex that's swallowed you up, and all you've been seeing is each other, and yourselves. But the rest of us still have our wits about us, Nick, and we're crime scene experts. It's our job to notice these things. But recently, you haven't been noticing us very much, have you?"

Nick grew defensive at the accusation. "That's not true—"

"Did you know Archie's dog died last week?" Riley interrupted. "Or that Catherine's daughter broke her wrist in a minor car accident?"

"Lindsey?" Nick asked.

"That was in February," said Riley, proving her point. "So where were you?"

Nick didn't have the words, so he just shook his head at her. "I don't have time for this," he said, picking up his kit.

"Isn't that the problem?" Riley called as he retreated, making him grind his teeth.

He thought about her words as he climbed into the car.

In fact, he thought about them all the way to the crime scene.

What he didn't know, was after he left, Riley pulled out her cell phone.

"Greg? Thought you oughtta know now rather than later. Nick just left our scene. Catherine sent him over to Lake Mead. I couldn't stop him."

* * *

Nick was very irritated with Riley for putting thoughts in his head that he didn't want to deal with. He suddenly realized that while Greg had been alienating himself from Nick, Nick had in turn been pushing the rest of his friends out of the way, completely absorbed in Greg and his problems. He gripped the wheel of his car tightly, his eyes narrowing as they focused on the road ahead. His preoccupation with Greg bordered on obsession, and it was bothering him. Well, all the more reason for him to get over it and move on then, like he had told Catherine at Henry's party. So that's what he was trying to do. Get over it and move on.

But even as the thought occurred to him, he knew that it wasn't fair. His mind had always been clouded wherever Greg was concerned, and now that he had come so close, now that he had tasted the dream, he was struggling to live without it. It hadn't been that difficult before. He had accepted long ago that he and Greg were just good friends, and would probably never be anything more than that. But now that he'd received an affirmation that Greg cared for him, too, he felt like something should be _done_ about it. The problem was, nothing was _being_ done about it. Greg wouldn't even let Nick act as a friend anymore. And Nick deduced that it was his obsession and subsequent frustration with Greg that had driven him to knowingly break his promise.

And suddenly, his stomach twisted with guilt.

Until his phone rang.

Though it was not yet illegal in the state of Nevada to use your cell phone while driving, Nick tended to avoid it. But it was possible that it was related to the scene he was working. Maybe Catherine wanted to brief him on his way over. Absentmindedly, he held the phone to his ear.

"Nick Stokes."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" came an even but slightly tremulous voice.

Nick clenched his teeth, his defiance leaping up in him again. "My job," he said coldly. "You have a problem with that, Greg?"

"Why are you being such an asshole all of a sudden?" Greg demanded. "I asked one simple thing of you and you couldn't do that for me?"

"Catherine needed someone out here and to be honest with you, I forgot—"

"Bull shit," Greg snapped. "You were already at another scene. You could have told her you were busy. She would have found someone else, it's not like you're the only fucking CSI on duty here!"

"Look, I'm not gonna avoid a case just because you had a stupid dream, Greg!" Nick snapped. "I'm not going to die tonight, and to be honest, I am tired of holding your hand."

"Yeah, it's a bitch, isn't it?" Greg returned. "You've been doing it for, what, two months? Try doing it for a year, and then we'll talk!"

Nick had to pull over because he was losing track of where he was going. When he was safely on the shoulder, he stopped holding back. "This isn't a competition, Greg! You keep acting like these things you're going through, you have to go through them alone, but you don't!"

"Well, maybe I want to!" Greg returned. "You're right, I don't have to, but I don't have to tell you everything either, do I? Maybe I'm happy doing this alone."

"Great!" Nick exclaimed. "You're happy alone, that's great, Greg, in fact, I really needed to hear that, because I feel like I've been walking on egg shells with you, never knowing what you want or what you're thinking, and it feels _great_ to finally know that that's what you want. At last, I know where I stand with you, and honestly, it's a relief. I don't know how much longer I could deal with your pitiful negative attitude!"

"You're calling me pitiful?!" Greg exclaimed. "Fuck you!"

"Witty," Nick said flatly.

"I'm really glad we had this conversation, Nick, because now I know what you really think about me," Greg spat. "I hope you fucking drown!"

"Don't be so melodra—" But before he could finish, the phone beeped at him, telling him that Greg had already hung up. Nick exhaled sharply through his nose, then raked his hands back through his hair. He took a few minutes to calm down before pulling back on the road.

Eventually he calmed down and for the first time in months managed to push Greg to the back of his mind. The phone rang a few more times, but Nick ignored it. Whoever it was, he was done with using cell phones while he was driving. It was too distracting.

* * *

By the time Nick had arrived, it was raining pretty hard, and there were quiet rumbles of thunder in the distance. Nick hoped the storm hadn't damaged the crime scene too badly, but he knew that Brass had the presence of mind to preserve it as much as possible.

"Hey, Nick," Brass greeted from beneath his umbrella as Nick pulled up to the marina and got out of his car. "Nice night for a massacre, wouldn't you say?"

Nick frowned at him. "Massacre?"

Brass nodded at one of the long docks. "Follow me," he said, and Nick obliged.

They reached a boat which was slightly larger and more expensive-looking than the rest. Brass stepped aside, indicating that he thought Nick should go first.

"Most of the damage is in the cabin," he told Nick, who went down a small flight of stairs and ducked his head to open the door. "A couple on their first anniversary with their sixth-month-old child."

"Oh no…" Nick sighed as he took in the scene. There were three things that occupied the cabin: a large bed, a bassinet which was overturned on the floor by the door, and a photo on the wall of the happy couple in pink and blue wetsuits making funny faces at the camera. A tiny, marble hand peeked out from beneath the blankets, unmoving and eerie.

On the bed was a woman who was bound and stripped. She had been gutted, and brutally. Blood stained the sheets crimson, and there was spatter on the window behind the bed. Nick noticed her organs as lumps that spilled out of her gaping stomach and shook his head.

"Where's the husband?" Nick asked.

"At the helm, like every good captain," Brass said. "It was him who called it in, actually. By the time cops got out to the boat, he was dead and the attacker was gone. Our boys checked every nook and cranny of this thing and towed it back to the marina."

Nick nodded and quickly left the room. The metallic, rotting stench of the blood filled the stuffy cabin and he needed some air. He appeared back on the deck and looked towards the control room where he could see the body of a man slumped over the wheel. His death wasn't nearly as gory as his wife's had been. Nick entered the room and realized that his throat had been slit. His eyes were frozen in death, a cold glassy gauze draped over them, never to be lifted from his icy gaze. There was a small blood pool at the base of the wheel. Nick crouched and examined it.

"David been here yet?" he asked, looking up at Brass who was standing in the doorway.

"'Fraid not," Brass said. "This call was made less than an hour ago, and he's at other scenes. He'll make it."

Nick looked at his watch. "Catherine should be here soon, too…" He stopped. He noticed a bloody footprint leading out of the room. He moved past Brass and stared at the water-covered white deck. Any blood would have been washed away by now. Nick frowned, slightly annoyed, then again, nothing could be done about it. And at least they had a footprint.

He walked to the stern and noticed some discarded scuba gear. The wetsuit had pink patches of fabric, and the mask matched it.

"Brass?" Nick called, hearing the detective round the corner. "Where's the other wetsuit?"

"I'm sorry?" said Brass.

"The photo in the cabin showed them both wearing wetsuits, but there's only one here," Nick explained. "Where's the other one?"

Brass shrugged. "Maybe she was the only one who went out today." He turned around, and they both saw headlights penetrate the darkness back on shore. "That'll be Catherine. There are officers on the dock, if you need anything while I'm gone. Back in a flash." He smiled, and disappeared into the dark storm.

Nick walked to the very back of the ship which contained a place for divers to slip into the water. He was curious about that second wetsuit, and it was possible that a mask or a flipper might have been left on the swimming deck. He climbed down the ladder and paused, looking out over the black lake, the waves snapping at the sky like hungry sharks in the storm.

And that's when he saw it. Bubbles, trickling up to the surface of the water. Even in the choppy waves, he could see them, and he shined his flashlight at it to get a better look, his mind trying to work out where they were coming from.

Seconds later, and without warning, there was a burst out of the water he was looking at and something seized his shirt and pulled him into the icy water.


	18. Through Her Eyes

**_Author's Note:_** No comment... except for apologies again for being so delayed.

Chapter Seventeen: Through Her Eyes

_At Henry's Party…_

Catherine glanced over at Henry and Greg and smiled, pleased that the lab tech was so happy with the party and impressed that Greg had thought of it. She had just picked up a cupcake when she saw Nick approaching her out of the corner of her eye and his sour expression made her smile falter.

"What's up?" she asked, taking a large bite of her cupcake. He was about to reply when she said, "Oh my God, who made these? They're amazing!"

"I don't know," Nick said, his tone implying that he also didn't care.

"Wendy," said Archie as he helped himself to one of them and taking a bite. "Biochemists make great cooks." He winked, then waved at someone across the room. "Yo, Riley!" And with that, he was gone again.

Catherine watched him go, chuckling lightly.

"I don't want to do this anymore," she heard Nick say, and it successfully grabbed her attention.

"Is this your two weeks' notice?" she asked, slightly disturbed at this sudden confession.

He looked confused. "What? No, I'm not quitting."

She sighed with relief. "Oh, good, because if you were leaving, then I'd have to hire someone else, and there's paper work, and then… Well, I can't lose you, Nicky. You're…" She glanced around, shiftily. "Don't tell the others, but you're my best man." She winked. Then, she remembered what he'd said. "Wait, if you're not quitting, what don't you want to do anymore?"

Nick ran a shaking hand through his hair. "This dance, with Greg. One step forward, two steps back. I keep trying to get him to open up and let me in, but it's like the closer I get the further apart we drift… And I just don't want to do that anymore…"

Any mirth that had been left in her expression vanished. "Right…" she began slowly, putting down her half-eaten cupcake. "So then what _are_ you going to do?"

Nick shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know…" he confessed. "I really don't. I just can't do _this_ anymore. I can't keep trying, can't keep facing the wall that he's built between us."

"So you're saying you're just going to… stop trying?" Catherine asked slowly, folding her arms.

"Obviously, you don't think that's a good idea," Nick said quickly, "but Catherine, what else can I do? Maybe if I just step back and just let things take its course, he'll come around… or he won't. Either way, it's beyond my control, right? So what's the point of trying?"

She nodded, slowly, chewing on her lip. "Well…" She glanced at Greg and Henry. "You've tried talking to him. You've given him space. You've done everything he's asked."

"Exactly," said Nick, following her gaze. "But it's not enough. Not for him. And this space thing, I mean, it's been three weeks, and maybe I just miss him too much, but he won't even look at me anymore. The only time he talks to me is about a case. He won't even give me status reports. He's not coping, Catherine, at least not very well."

"Just give him a few more weeks, Nick," Catherine said, smiling at him kindly. "Let him come to you."

Nick folded his arms too and stared at the floor. "Yeah, I know, but I just have this really nasty gut feeling that…" He trailed off.

She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to try and catch his eye. "That what?"

He looked up, and his eyes were lost. "That he never will." He shrugged and tried to smile. "So I guess that means I give up."

* * *

_February…_

"I mean…" Riley began slowly. "That's OK with you, right?"

Catherine tapped her pen above the leave request form, a small smile on her face to mask her anxiety. "Just so long as you're coming back to us," she said.

Riley nodded vigorously. "Oh, yeah, of course!" she cried. "She only needs me for a week, if that. I might be able to hold back on going a few days if you need me. Weddings aren't exactly my thing."

Catherine chuckled. "Great. Riley… I know you haven't been here long, but too many changes on this team and we lose our balance. I'd hate to have to replace you."

"Well, I'm glad to be here," Riley said. "It's hard to come onto a team that's been so close for so many years, especially after…" She stopped herself, and Catherine saw the guilt in her eyes. Riley thought that she'd crossed some line by alluding to Warrick's death.

Catherine forced a smile to assuage her fears. "Right," she said, changing the subject and not allowing herself to dwell on the name that barely flickered through her mind. "Of course. It's hard to find the right fit, but we have with you and Ray. I think you two are doing very well here."

"Thank you very much," Riley said sincerely. "But you don't have to act like I'm never coming back again. It's just a week for a wedding, not even that if I can convince her that she doesn't need her maid of honor to argue with the caterer for her."

Catherine opened her mouth, her mind searching for an attempt to bond, perhaps share the story of how her wedding to Eddie had gone all wrong, when the phone rang. She answered it, holding up her finger at Riley to signify that she didn't want the young woman to leave just yet.

"Catherine Willows," she said, in her best supervisor voice.

"M-Mom?"

Her heart skipped a beat. She couldn't help the look of fear that skipped across her face like a stone in a lake. "Lindsey? What's the matter?"

"Nothing… If you define 'nothing' lightly…"

She heard the slight crack in Lindsey's voice, the subtle fluctuations in timbre as she pretended to be calm. Catherine had been nervous all day, and until now, she couldn't place her finger on the reason. But suddenly, she finally understood. All was not well with her daughter. "Lindsey, what happened? Are you OK?"

Riley seemed to notice that she was eavesdropping on a personal matter and rose to leave, but Catherine signaled her to wait. She slowly slid back into her chair, visibly uncomfortable.

"Yeah… yeah," Lindsey said, repeating things the way she always did when she lied. "I mean, I'm a bit shook up, but the important thing is I'm _OK_. I'm OK, Mom. That's what you have to remember."

Her brow furrowed as suspicion took its hold. Now that her daughter had assured her that she was not on the brink of death, Catherine suspected that she was afraid of her mother's fury more than anything else. And that means she'd done something she shouldn't have. "Lindsey, have you been arrested?!" Giving her line of work, it was always the first thought she had.

"What?! No! I mean, it was _totally_ the other guy's fault."

"The _other_ guy?" Catherine blinked.

"Yeah, Mom, but like I said, the important thing is, _I'm_ OK."

"You're OK," Catherine said. "Is the _other_ guy OK?"

"What? Yeah, he's cool. No, Mom, I'm fine, the guy's fine, it's just… the car. The car is not fine, Mom."

Catherine closed her eyes as the last of the panic washed away and annoyance began to settle in. "Linds, what happened? Where are you?"

"There was a tiny accident. Now, the airbags deployed, and everyone was wearing our seatbelts—"

"_Everyone_?" Catherine repeated. "Lindsey, you _know_ you're not supposed to drive with anyone under eighteen in the car!"

"Well, Trevor's nineteen—" she began, and then stopped, knowing she had betrayed herself.

Catherine rose to her feet, her jaw nearly hitting her desk. "What the hell are you doing driving around at night with a nineteen-year-old boy named Trevor whom I've never met?!"

Riley rose to her feet again and gestured at the door. "I'm just going to…"

Still, Catherine refused to let her leave, and with another gesture, bound her to the chair again.

"Trevor Lockley, you met him that one time we were at Megan's basketball game… He goes to UNLV."

"Lindsey…" Catherine closed her eyes and sighed. "We'll talk about Trevor when I get home. How bad is the damage to the car?"

"Well, not _totally_ bad…"

"How bad?"

"I don't know. I'm not good with money and stuff. The front is pretty smashed, but the back looks really awesome! Did you pay for that new paint job last week? It looks nice."

"Lindsey, where are you?" Catherine asked, grabbing her purse. "I'm coming to get you."

"Desert Palms," Lindsey replied.

Catherine stopped. "What? But I thought you said you were OK!"

"I did, but I broke my wrist. That reminds me, the doctors want our insurance. I don't know it."

_Stupid teenagers_, Catherine muttered in her head.

"Oh, and I think someone said something about a concussive."

"Con_cussion_," Catherine corrected.

"Yeah, whatever."

Catherine rubbed her tired eyes. "OK, Lindsey, just… wait for me."

"Where else am I gonna go? They won't let me leave until I give them my insurance information. Oh, and the guy that hit me, he wants insurance stuff too."

"But I thought he hit _you_," Catherine said.

"He did," Lindsey replied. "He hit us when we were changing lanes. See, we were on this hill—"

"Lindsey, just stop talking," Catherine groaned. "I can't listen to this right now. I'll meet you at the hospital. Bye."

She hung up and heaved a heavy sigh, then looked up at Riley, who looked a little mortified that she'd heard that whole thing. Suddenly, Catherine felt guilty for making her stay.

"That was my daughter," she explained.

"Yeah, I got that," Riley replied. "Is there something you wanted to tell me?"

Catherine wracked her brain, but it was gone. "I'm sorry, Riley."

The young CSI managed a smile. "Hey, it's OK. You should go make sure your daughter's all right."

"She's fine," Catherine grumbled. "Just broke her wrist joyriding in my car with a boy I never met whose three years older than her." And then, she had to smile. "Actually, when I was her age… I did worse."

Riley smirked. "Nah," she said. "You don't seem the type."

Catherine snorted and rolled her eyes. "If only you knew," she said.

* * *

_Present._

Catherine turned into her office as Greg snapped his phone shut and expressed a loud, frustrated growl.

"Who did you just wish death upon?" she asked, making him jump.

He spun around and looked guilty for a moment before his gaze hardened. "You have to take me with you to your scene at Lake Mead."

She cocked an eyebrow. "You heard about that, did you?"

"Yeah, I did," said Greg, clearly irritated as he folded his arms. "Riley told me. Why did you have to ask Nick to go? I'm not even on a case right now!"

Catherine was flabbergasted and folded her arms, indignantly. She couldn't believe that Greg Sanders was questioning her. "You're not on a case, huh? Did you forget about that smothered little girl? She needs someone just as much as my family at Lake Mead, Greg."

Greg closed his eyes and sighed. "I know… I know. I'm sorry, I'm just… stressed out." He fell into a chair by her desk and raked his hand through his hair.

Catherine shook her head. "Why are you boys all out of sorts?" she asked, taking a seat in a chair next to Greg.

Greg looked up at her. "What are you talking about?"

She sighed. "Nothing," she said, feigning ignorance. "Why are you mad that I sent Nick to Lake Mead?"

"It's stupid…" Greg muttered, then frowned. "Really stupid, actually. Oh God, I shouldn't have said that to him." He reached for his phone and looked at it. "I should apologize."

"Mm, yeah," Catherine agreed. "That was Nick, then? I wasn't sure when you said you'd talked to Riley…"

"Yes, it was Nick," Greg said, putting the phone to his ear and letting it ring. "Can I still go with you to Lake Mead?"

Catherine hesitated before nodding. "If it's that important to you, Greg, sure you can. You gonna tell me why?"

He shook his head stubbornly and Catherine gave him the same look she gave Lindsey when she knew her daughter was lying. And then, Greg sighed. "It was… a dream…"

Catherine's eyebrows shot up. "A dream?"

Greg hung up the phone and leaned forward in his chair. "It wasn't just any dream, Cath, it was…" He chewed on his lip and watched her for a moment, as if trying to guess how she'd react to his next words. It made her all the more curious and she, too, leaned forward conspiratorially, as if they were sharing some dark secret.

"It's just, the last time I had a dream like this…" Greg began, "Warrick was shot."

Catherine felt a chill run down her spine as all the color drained from her face. She leaned back in her chair, her jaw firmly set. "That's not funny, Greg."

"I know!" Greg exclaimed. "I'm not joking, Catherine! I had… this crazy vivid dream that I was in a car with Warrick and we were laughing, like someone had just told the funniest joke of all time, but I never knew what it was. And then, he put the key in the ignition, but instead of hearing the car start, I heard a gunshot, and Warrick turned to look at me with this funny expression on his face and his neck—"

"Stop it," Catherine interjected, her throat closing up. She looked sharply away and fed on her anger to repress the ache that was rising in her stomach.

Greg seemed to notice that she was upset, because he immediately backed off. "I'm sorry."

She snapped her head to look at him again. "What are you saying, exactly? That you had this dream before he died? And now you've had some sort of dream about Nick?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "Yeah, that's what I'm saying."

Catherine put on a stony expression. "You realize how ridiculous you sound, right?"

"Totally," said Greg. "Still, I'd feel a lot better if—"

Catherine jumped to her feet. "OK, Greg. Let's go."

* * *

The drive to Lake Mead Marina was a long one, and Catherine had no interest in asking Greg any further details about his dream. Hearing about Warrick had been difficult enough. She knew that Greg had often jested about other-worldly powers and the merits of crystal balls and palmistry, but she had always thought that the jokes were just that: jokes. And now, he was actually expecting her to take him seriously? And what was even stranger… She believed him.

As they drove, Greg continued to call Nick repeatedly, every fifteen minutes or so, desperate to apologize.

"What if I can't tell him I didn't mean it before he—"

"Nick is going to be fine, Greg," Catherine insisted, as much for Greg's comfort as her own.

Greg was quiet for a moment. He shifted in his seat. And then, after a while, he asked, "How are you doing anyway?"

Catherine remained focus on the road. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Greg pressed. "I mean, honestly. It occurred to me that I haven't really asked you how you've been doing lately…"

She smiled at his sincerity. She would have turned to look at him, maybe even hug him if she wasn't driving. "Yes, Greg, I'm very fine. Lindsey keeps pushing my buttons, but teenagers are supposed to do that, aren't they?"

"Lindsey," Greg said fondly. "How is that crazy girl?"

"Crazier than ever!" Catherine replied, half frustrated, half proud. "She still complains about her wrist, even though the brace came off weeks ago. I just tell her that she brought it upon herself."

"Her wrist?" Greg sounded concerned.

Catherine glanced at him briefly. "Yeah, um, she was in an accident back in February."

"No way!" Greg exclaimed. "How come you never said anything?"

"It wasn't important," Catherine exclaimed. "She came out of it relatively unscathed. In fact, I'd almost go so far as to say it was a good thing. She follows the rules now. Never out driving after dark, and if her boyfriend Trevor is with her, then he's the one doing the driving. She's a newly licensed driver, and there are all these pointless rules she has to follow because of it… Don't tell her I called them pointless, though, because then she'll _never_ follow them and I'll have to pay some sort of ticket. Oh god, why did I ever agree to getting her a license in the first place?"

And then, she head the strangest sound. It was something she hadn't heard in a long time. Greg was laughing. And it wasn't the same, forced chuckle he gave whenever someone told a bad joke. It was genuine, from-the-gut laughter.

"You should do that more often," Catherine said.  
"Do what?" Greg asked.

She smiled at him. "Laugh."

He snorted. "I laugh plenty."

"Not like that," Catherine said.

Greg grew quiet again and watched the road. "I don't know. Maybe Nick's right, maybe I am being pathetic.

"If Nick called you pathetic, he was just being defensive," Catherine said astutely.

Greg leaned his head against the window. "Whatever the reason he said it, he's right. I've been a little fuzzy lately. Maybe it's time for me to get back on my feet. Stop believing in dreams that aren't ever coming true."

Catherine said nothing, she just focused on her driving. And Greg fell into an unusual quiet as he stared contemplatively out the window. It wasn't an awkward silence anymore. There was nothing heavy or unpleasant hanging in the air between them. The car was quiet, and they were comfortable with that.

And neither of them broke that comfortable quiet until they reached Lake Mead.

* * *

Catherine pulled into a parking space and she and Greg leapt out of the car, walking towards the docks beneath two umbrellas. By the time they reached them, they saw Brass heading their way, waving at them in the rain.

"You look wet," Catherine said, safely beneath her umbrella.

"You didn't make supervisor for nothing, I can see that," Brass returned with amused sarcasm. He noticed Greg, whose eyes were scanning the boats on the dock. He opened his mouth to say something when the young CSI cut him off.

"Where's Nick?"

Brass threw a thumb over his shoulder, down the long, narrow path of the dock. "Last boat on the end, looking some things over. What are you doing here?"

Greg opened his mouth to reply, and both Brass and Catherine waited. The latter folded her arms and waited for Greg to say something about his dream.

But then, he closed his mouth again and shrugged in that careless, carefree manner he used to have so often so many years ago. "I wasn't doing anything and I thought Nick and Catherine could use the help."

Catherine smiled, pride flooding her chest as she looked at Greg, all grown up and rational.

But Greg's eyes were on the boat at the end of the dock. "Did you hear that?" he asked the other two.

Catherine hadn't heard anything, but Brass nodded and started heading in the direction of the dock with Greg on his heels. Catherine followed, curious as to what they had both heard, when Greg picked up speed and passed Brass, running down the dock. Slightly surprised, Brass started to jog after Greg, calling his name, telling him to stop.

Trailing after the both of them, Catherine maintained her brisk walk. Whatever they had heard, it had ignited that fearful fire beneath Greg's heels. Catherine chewed on her lip, wondering if she wanted to know what was at the end of the dock. But as they neared the boat, she could guess. There was splashing sounds, and then suddenly, there was nothing.

Brass moved to the very end of the dock, but Greg, for whatever reason, had chosen to run onto the boat, following his instincts, Catherine assumed, and she came to a decision.

"What do you see?" she asked Brass at the end of the dock.

"There's some sort of commotion at the stern of the boat," Brass replied, then turned to her. "Go after Greg, he could get hurt."

Catherine nodded rapidly, then dropped her umbrella and leapt up onto the boat, following Greg, who she saw down on the diving dock, scanning the water frantically. His flashlight swept over the waves, turning the water white. He whipped around when he heard her approach, his eyes wild, his face gaunt.

"I don't see him, do you?!" he asked anxiously.

Her mouth partially open, she shook her head.

He spun around again to scan the surface of the choppy water, unable to determine any significant disturbances due to the storm. Catherine found that she couldn't move at all. He knees had locked, her feet glued to the spot, and she felt absolutely useless.

"I don't see him!" she heard Greg shout again. "Catherine!"

And at his desperate call, she was reanimated, and she ran to him like she would run to Lindsey when her daughter cried out after a nightmare. She wrapped her arms around him, forcing him to look away, and grasped the back of his head, even as he struggled, even as he told her no.

"Greg, listen to me. Have you checked the cabin? Is he there?"

"No, Catherine, there was a splash, something fell into the water—"

"How could you hear that in this weather?" Catherine asked. "The waves are making all kinds of splashing sounds, Greg—"

"Catherine!" Greg protested. "Don't ask me how I know, I just _know_!"

And then, she saw something. A flicker of white beneath the glassy green waves over Greg's shoulder. And without thinking, she pushed him away and said, "There!"

Greg turned to see where she was pointing. And then, without a word of warning to Catherine, he pushed her back and dove into the water, leaving her furious and frantic.


	19. Ergo Sum

**_Author's Note:_** One more installment to go. Sorry it's taking so long, I hope to get that up shortly.

Chapter Eighteen: Ergo Sum

He didn't know precisely when he had hit the water. It had happened so fast that in his mind, one moment he had been crouching casually on the edge of the boat, and the next he was wrestling with tentacled water monsters twenty thousand leagues under the sea.

It occurred to him, in this moment of mortal coil, that he had never in fact read anything by Jules Verne. He remembered seeing one of his novels in the box that Greg hid in his closet, under coats that had fallen off the hangers. He had snooped around Greg's place after his friend had fallen asleep in search of the secret box, which contained a wealth of history that was too painful for the man to face at that time. But Nick had wanted to know. He had wanted to know the video games Neil liked to play other than Mario Kart. He wanted to know the words Neil wrote in his three journals that Greg never opened. He wanted to see the clothes Neil had worn before he'd turned a hospital gown into a fashion statement. He wanted to know the books Neil read.

He had seen so many things in that box, prying despite the fact that he felt as if he were opening a tomb and robbing someone's grave. So many games, so many journals, so many books…

But all Nick could remember was that one title by Jules Verne. _The Sea Serpent_.

In the midst of their struggle, with one strong kick upward, he exploded to the surface, between two wave crests, until the water washed over him and he was pulled down again. He had succeeded in gulping in what little oxygen he could, but it wasn't enough. He somehow knew that it wasn't nearly enough.

Something long and rubbery slid around Nick's neck, threatening to snap it. Nick couldn't see a thing in the murky waves, and the chill in the water began to bite at his white skin. Whatever he struggled with, it fought hard, but Nick fought harder. Every once in a while when he'd crack his eye open, he'd see a white flash. It came and went, but the third time he saw it, he propelled his fist forward and came in contact with something solid and smooth. Pain radiated through his knuckles and up his arm.

And that's when he first realized that he wasn't dealing with a mythological beast, which was potentially the product of his panicked brain after he'd inexplicably fell into the water. He was dealing with something solid, something real… Something human.

He seized the shoulders of his attacker, but his thumbs slipped against the wet cloth. They wrestled under the water, and Nick tried to maintain his strength, but he was running out of oxygen, and they hadn't broken the surface in what felt like too long a time. He grew weaker and weaker, and clawed at his assailant's face even as his head was spinning. His fingers curled around something rubber as his head felt lighter than the water, and he was thinking _No_, very emphatically, as if by willing it he could somehow make it happen. _This isn't how it goes down. I can't die tonight, not this way, not now. I refuse._

But despite his furious thoughts, he couldn't help but fall, fast and deep, into the depths of Lake Mead…

* * *

The sky was a bright blue, with scattered, fluffy clouds. They sat at a café table in a meadow surrounded by cherry trees. It was strangely quiet, apart from the occasional bird chirping and the rustling of leaves as the wind wove in and out of the trees. The air was cool, and the sun was warm, and the grass was greener than Nick thought grass could be.

"Is this the other side?" he guessed, remembering the old adage.

"That depends on your definition," said his companion, whose elbow was on the round black table, his chin resting on his fist as his eyes focused on Nick, as if seeing straight through him.

"The grass," Nick commented. "It's greener."

"It always is," Neil replied, a tiny smirk capturing his features. "You're quite the character, Nick Stokes, do you know that?"

"How do you mean?" Nick asked.

"When you were ten, you chased your sister up a tree. She walked one of the branches like a balance beam and you followed. But she was a trained gymnast, and you were just her dorky little brother. You fell. Broke your arm in two places, and fractured your knee." He paused. "What would you say if I told you that you were supposed to die that day? Rest in a coffin that was only four feet long."

"I'd say I'd rather be cremated," Nick replied. "I've tried the coffin thing and it's not how I'd want to spend the rest of eternity."

"Oh, come on, it's not so bad!" Neil exclaimed, leaning back in his chair. He gestured at the meadow. "More spacious than you'd initially guess, don't you think?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Nick asked.

"Because it's true," Neil explained, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward again. "Or, at least, it could be true. In some other reality, Nick, you died that day. If you had fallen off the left side of the branch instead of the right, you would have cracked your skull open on the big branch five feet down. Or if your sister hadn't been there to catch your arm just as you fell, you would have picked up enough momentum to break your neck."

Nick's nose twitched, but he said nothing.

Neil continued. "Fast forward to April 4th, 2002. You were thirty-two, and a confrontation with a trigger-happy psycho put your thread on fate's blade yet again. And that wasn't the first time you had a gun in your face, was it, my friend? The only thing that stood between you and this place was another person's will. What if you'd never been interrupted?" He leaned further forward, as if his next words were a whisper. "What if Nigel Crane finally became you?"

Nick recoiled. "What game are you playing here, Neil?"

"May 19th, 2005, a simple coin toss—"

"Don't go there," Nick interrupted. "I'm sick of it."

Dutifully, Neil obeyed and closed his mouth, blinking at Nick blankly. And then, finally he said, "You're not supposed to die today either, Nick."

Nick frowned. "I thought… that's what this whole thing was all about?" He gestured at his surroundings.

Neil was shaking his head. "Nope. That's not what all this is about at all."

Nick looked up at the perfect blue sky and focused hard. He knew that somewhere far beyond that, there were stars, and planets, and suns deeper and further away than he could ever fathom. "I can't help him," he said. It was a quiet fact that he had known for months, and yet he continued to try.

"You underestimate yourself," Neil said. "You've helped him plenty."

"I can't," Nick said. "Both my parents are still alive. I never knew my grandparents. I have never lost anything… Not like he has."

Neil's eyes refocused on something over Nick's shoulder. "I think someone would disagree with you on that."

Nick turned to see what Neil was looking at and the meadow dissolved around him and instead, he sat in the bleachers at a ballpark, watching some team in red playing some team in blue, and not too sure who he was supposed to be rooting for.

Beside him sat a ghost that hadn't haunted him for months. Lately, the disturbances in his head had subsided. The poltergeist had been sleeping, but it was still there, deep beneath the layers of his conscious mind, and here was the evidence, his grief incarnate.

"I know you still miss me," the incarnation said, watching the red team pitch far below them.

Nick couldn't look at him. "What's with this ghost parade? Either let me die, or wake me up. I'm tired of playing games, Warrick."

"How do you feel about watching one? Come on, Nick. How many times have you wished you could kick it like this with me in the months since I've been gone? Just you, me, the players and the field."

"And crackerjacks," Nick insisted. "It ain't a ballgame without crackerjacks."

Warrick cracked a dry grin. "I always thought you were a hotdog man myself."

"That's not some crack, is it?" Nick dared. "Because I'm not afraid to hit a dead man."

And then, Warrick laughed. "No jokes, Nick, not from me. You know you'd never hear that kind of thing from me."

Nick fell quiet. He looked out at the two teams, swinging bats and running bases, and felt so far away from them. He couldn't even hear that tell-tale crack when the ball finally connected with the bat. Everything was disconnected. As if the players existed in one reality, and he and Warrick were in another.

And then, the question rose to the surface of his consciousness, his heart lurching, afraid of the answer. "Is any of this real?"

"I don't know much about philosophy, Nick," said Warrick. "You know me, I was more of a hard science guy. All that stuff about what's real and what isn't always went way over my head when I took that course in college. Who was that guy? That guy who decided that the only thing that we can know for sure is real is our own thoughts? Who was he?"

Nick shrugged, completely at a loss. He'd never taken a philosophy course in his life. He'd taken anthropology instead to satisfy that requirement. People were much more interesting to him than long-dead Greeks who had nothing better to do than think all day.

"If I recall," Warrick mused, his voice suddenly remarkably loud, "the very fact that you're asking if this is real proves that at least something here is. Or, no, wait…" Warrick frowned, then smiled, turning to look at Nick with those bright blue eyes. "Now I'm confusing myself."

"Is this your roundabout way of saying that you don't know what this is anymore than I do?" Nick proposed.

Warrick shrugged. "Aw, what does it matter, anyway? There's no real merit to philosophy. It just makes things more complicated. Let's stick to the simple, Nick. Like why you can't die today."

"Where's Neil?" Nick asked, looking around. "That little bastard was a literature nut, he ought to know what the hell is going on. He was good with metaphors and junk like that."

"Greg just lost Neil," Warrick continued, as if Nick hadn't said anything. "You're the only one he's let in since that happened. And now, you're willing to throw that all away? And for what? So you can sit in the bleachers all day with me, watching two teams that neither of us know play a never-ending baseball game that no one ever wins?"

"No one wins?" Nick asked, looking down at the red and blue players. He looked up at the scoreboard. Bottom of the ninth and zero runs on each side. "Hey, how can it be never-ending?" Nick cried, jumping up and pointing at the board. "It's the ninth inning!"

"It's been the ninth inning since I got here," Warrick replied. "But the game isn't over yet."

"All things end," Nick muttered, falling back onto the bleacher. "And I'm tired of games." His eyes grew heavy and he yawned. "Actually, I'm just… tired."

"The game isn't over yet," Warrick said, as Nick watched a red player step up to the base as the blue pitcher prepared to throw the next ball.

Through half-lidded eyes, he watched the curveball, which he hadn't been expecting at all by the position of the pitcher. He was suddenly terrified that the batter would miss it, and for a fleeting instant, he saw a face under the red helmet, and he smiled at Nick with perfect teeth and a glint in his sweet brown eyes. The curve ball seemed to approach the bat in the slowest of slow motion. Nick watched as the batter turned at his waist, putting all his strength behind the hit, and when Nick's eyes fell closed, he imagined stepping behind that player, placing his hands on those hips, covered in dirt, and kissing that neck, salty with sweat. He could hear his own heartbeat, his own breathing, and he fell away before he saw if the batter had hit the ball or not.

There were voices. They sounded as if he were hearing them through a few solid inches of glass. He couldn't make out words, just scattered muffled sounds, and something was punching his chest. The glass between him and the outside world thinned, and the noise around him grew louder. The rain fell fast and hard like bullets against his forehead. He could still hear the rush of the water, and for some reason, the giggle of his older sister as she taunted him from her perch up in the tree.

"_Poor little Nicky can't even play the game properly! Follow the leader, baby!_" She laughed and laughed and laughed, and then, like a meteor streaking suddenly across the sky, she screamed. It was a dissonant cord, jarring and irritating like a dozen cats in heat climbing up a chalkboard. And the screams turned to reassuring words, so mature beyond her years, so much older than she had sounded moments before.

"_I've got you! I won't let you go. I _won't."

But she did.

There was a rush of air, like a whirlwind, and his sister's sobs faded far into the distance, but there was still sobbing of another kind to be heard.

"Five, six, seven…"

The pressure on his chest continued, and he felt like his body was leaking into the ground. It was at that moment that he realized that he was numb all over. Only a half second later he realized that he wasn't breathing.

"Eighteen, nineteen, twenty…"

_How am I conscious if I'm not breathing?_ He felt like he should panic, but he didn't know how.

"Twenty-nine, thirty."

The compressions stopped. Nick was afraid that they'd given up, but then he felt his mouth open, and warmth clashed with his icy cold lips, and it stung like poison, but it was the first time he actually felt something real, other than the chest compressions. Air flooded his mouth, and he tasted stale coffee with a hint of mocha. It flooded his bloodstream and melted him.

There was a pause, and then the hot contact returned, and more warm air burst into Nick's open mouth like gale force winds. The breath trembled slightly at the end, and then the contact was gone. There was a pause.

"He's not responding!" he heard a frantic yell, the voice cracking.

"Brass has gone to get the medics!" came a second voice through the storm. He couldn't place either of them, he only knew that they comforted him as well as a warm blanket and a mug of strong Irish coffee in his favorite chair. They sounded like home.

There was another pause. He felt hands against his chest, but there was no pressure. Fingers contracted against his skin, uncertainly, and then the palms were flat against his chest again. "I…" came a lost voice. And then, the hands seemed to remember their purpose. One climbed over the other and Nick felt the heel of a palm firmly against his chest. Every compression was punctuated by a word. "Wake. Up. Dammit. Why. Don't. You. Ever. _Listen_. To. Me!" He growled, furiously, and continued his count. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen…"

The sounds became like a circus, and he felt ice surge up into his throat and spluttered as it cut into his mouth and poured out of his lips like crystals. And then, suddenly, he couldn't stop coughing, and all the feeling returned to him and his body was immediately on fire, his every pore ringing with sharp pain. It took him a second to realize that he wasn't on fire, and that in all actuality, the opposite was true. He was drenched from head to toe in water, and shivering like a fresh-caught fish.

But before he could dwell too long on this new information, he was gathered up in a suffocating embrace. The person who held him was equally wet, and trembling too, although Nick surmised that it wasn't because he was cold.

Lips immediately claimed his own. Nick recognized them as the lips that had breathed the life right back into him and gratefully returned the desperate kiss, eager to express his thanks. Water drops splashed against his cheek that were far too warm to be from the rain.

When Greg finally broke the kiss and held Nick as tightly to him as he possibly could, Nick couldn't hear what he was muttering over the storm, but he didn't care. Greg's chin was on his shoulder, his hands securely on his back, and Nick still wasn't entirely sure what happened, but he knew that he was grateful beyond measure.

* * *

The very second Catherine pointed out the serpent in the water, three things happened inside Greg's head at once. First, he knew exactly what had happened, as if he had witnessed the whole thing himself. Second, he knew that he had to intervene, or the villain would hold Nick beneath the waves until there was no life left in him. And third—

He jumped. Without a second thought to Catherine and her panic, he plunged into the obsidian water and fell beneath the surface, where every sound of the storm was muted. He opened his eyes and realized that he could see nothing at all, and that maybe he had acted too rashly, but there was no time for thinking or planning, he had to _do something_. He lashed out and made contact with a round, textured object that he knew must be the killer's arm and seized it, yanking hard. He opened his eyes again, trying to see what he was fighting, and saw the white glint off of a diving mask that flashed like lightning. He knew Catherine must have been scanning the water with her flashlight, anxious and ambivalent of what to do.

Something targeted the flashing light and there was an incredible surge of bubbles that erupted as if out of nowhere. In another rare flash of light Greg could make out the silhouette of something falling, deeper into the water as yet another object rose upwards. Greg made a choice and dove deeper, targeting the sinking weight and reached out, desperate to catch him, believing that the body he sought was still alive.

And then, physics took effect, and instead of sinking, the body rose right into Greg's arms, and the younger man, his lungs straining for oxygen, kicked fiercely upwards and broke the surface of the choppy waves. He saw the boat through bleary eyes, but then this image disappeared as the waves whipped at his face and he closed his eyes again, swimming towards the boat with one arm, and holding Nick with the other.

As he continued to swim, he'd look in the direction of the boat now and then. Once, he thought he saw someone hauling something onto the deck. As he drew closer and dared to look again, he saw that it was Catherine, dripping wet and violently cuffing someone in a blue and black wetsuit. He closed his eyes again and continued to swim.

In high school, Greg had always been jealous of the swim team, which his mother never let him join because it was too dangerous. She had barely agreed to let the neighbor's son teach Greg how to swim when he was eight. So partly in order to convince his mother that he would be safe in the water, he took a lifeguard certification course behind her back, intending to tell her when he was finally certified. Unfortunately, she found out about his secret course two lessons away from certification and pulled him from it immediately.

Greg never became a certified lifeguard, but he did learn a few tricks of the trade which benefitted him when he took his scuba diving class in college, away from his mother's influence. And he employed everything that diving, surfing, and his lifeguard training had taught him now. He held Nick securely beneath the arms, keeping his head above water as he used mainly his legs to propel them back to the boat.

When they finally arrived, the man Catherine had cuffed was gone, and she reached down to help Greg pull Nick out of the water and onto the boat, where Greg laid him out flat, checking his pulse and breathing. When he knew that Nick wasn't breathing, he pinched his nose shut and exhaled air into Nick's lungs twice. He checked Nick's breathing again.

"He's unresponsive, I have to do chest compressions," he called up to Catherine, who simply nodded, her face very pale but her eyes stern.

Greg returned to Nick and began the compressions, counting out loud to maintain the rhythm, and trying to be gentle enough to keep from breaking his ribs. He counted loudly and repeated the process, checking the breathing and exhaling into Nick's mouth. After he went through the rounds a few times, he turned to Catherine, horrified.

"He's not responding!"

"Brass has gone to medics," Catherine told him. "Just keep at it, Greg!"

His throat closing up, Greg nodded and returned to Nick. He stared at the body, which looked completely lifeless and a chill trickled down his spine. Nick was laying on the deck of this ship, his skin rubbery and pale, his eyes closed, his chest unmoving, and all of Greg's dreams—the one concerning his grandmother, the one about Warrick, and lastly, the one about Nick—came flooding back to him. In the past, he hadn't been able to prevent what had happened. Maybe he wasn't meant to prevent this.

"I…" He chewed on his lips, his expert lifeguard hands unsure. Why had he seen this? What were his dreams trying to tell him about this moment if not the fact that he was _meant_ to save Nick? Was it just a cruel joke?

Greg set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, furious with whatever cosmic powers were playing with him, but he wouldn't let them win this game, not if he still had a chance to stop it. He pushed on Nick's chest with renewed vigor, fueled by his anger. "Wake. Up. Dammit!"

And then the corpse of his best friend was reanimated, when the icy water spilled from his mouth like vomit, Greg knew that he had done it, that there was a reason after all, and he had succeeded. He seized Nick in a constricting grip that he knew wasn't healthy, but he didn't care, he had his friend back.  
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not perfect, and I'm scared all the time and that's why, Nick, that's why I haven't been… Oh God, I'm just so glad you're here, I'm so fucking glad that I didn't lose you. I love you so goddamn much!"

* * *

Catherine and Greg stood beneath a tent, pulling their blankets tighter around them as the rain continued to fall. The storm would not pause for anything, not even the miracle of a rescued life. Their eyes were watching Nick, sitting on the edge of an ambulance as the medics checked his vitals and made sure that no lasting damage was done to his lungs or brain.

"You went in after me," Greg said, after the silence became too heavy to carry.

She said nothing, but the corner of her lips curled into a sly smirk.

Greg shifted, tugging at the loose threads in the blanket and staring at the cement beneath their feet. His cheeks were flushing, but she couldn't see in this light, and even if she could, her eyes were focused on Nick. Greg couldn't look at her, not directly. Not after what she'd seen.

And then, she spoke. "I only jumped when I saw the bastard break the surface. Someone pulled out his mouth piece." She cast a suspicious glance at Greg. He chose not to correct her. "Anyways, he was trying to swim away from the boat. So I put an end to that. Brass hauled him away before you got back to the deck."

Greg had no response to this. He simply stood there, staring at his shoes, anxious about her thoughts on his behavior. So finally, he decided to bring it up. "What you saw… between Nick and me…"

"What?" Catherine asked, as if she had no idea what he was talking about. "You mean the non-CPR related lip-lock? Oh, honey, don't worry about it." She turned away, grinning, and he heard her mumble, "I mean, it's about _time_."

Though the rest of his body shivered from the cold, Greg's face was stiflingly warm as he ducked his head and silently agreed with her.

* * *

_"Cogito, ergo sum,"_-- **René Descartes**


	20. Epilogue

**_Author's Note:_** Forgive me. I'm posting this without a beta, and it's not LaughableBlackStorm's fault. My computer tends to eat the files she sends me and I can't find it. Also, I didn't want to wait to ask her to resend it, so I read through it and hopefully it's OK. Enjoy. I'm working on a few other projects right now, so... you'll see the next one when it comes.

Epilogue

An arm rose into the air, the finger stiff and certain as the corners of lips curled into a decisive smirk.

"That one."

He cocked his head to the side, his eyes on the man that towered over him. He padded across the room, looking out through the chain link at the eyes that sparkled at him as if he were the Christmas present the man's inner child had always wanted.

He sneezed and it shook his tiny body. The man laughed. He wagged his tail.

Another human came into view and crouched to look in the cell. The puppy sneezed again.

"He looks a little sick."

The first man fell to his knees, almost in reverence. "So we'll take care of him."

The puppy opened his mouth, his tongue falling out over his teeth as he breathed at the two men. If he could, he would have smiled. He wanted to play.

"He's a mutt," said the second man.

The puppy didn't know what that word meant.

"We're all mutts," the first man returned, the grin a permanent feature on his face.

The second man placed his palm against the chain link. The puppy took a few more steps to the barrier between them and dragged his rough tongue against the salty surface, tasting metal and sweat.

The second man laughed. He rose to his feet. "How old is this dog?"

"We're not sure," said the woman who worked at the shelter. "We're guessing maybe… about four months."

"So… January?"

The shelter worker nodded. "That's right. So you want him, or not?"

"We'll take 'im," said the first man, who hadn't looked away from the puppy for a moment. The puppy, for his part, couldn't look away from the man.

"Greg, we should talk about this…"

"Nick," the first man said stubbornly. "I want this dog."

Nick slowly smiled and his eyes fell on the scruffy puppy. He was a breed of unknown origins, who walked with a bit of a skip, and whose tail was slightly crooked, and he had a little bit of a doggy cold. But his eyes were eager and young and had a spark in them that were mirrored in Greg's own soft, wide, chocolate eyes.

The puppy caught sight of a tuft of white out of the corner of his eye. He turned to get a better look, but the white tuft shot out of his vision. He followed it diligently, determined to see what it was. Every now and then, he caught sight of it, always out of the corner of his eye and he skipped on after it, turning sharply in circles, round and round. He felt that he was bound to catch it eventually. He wasn't old enough to understand that some things are never meant to be caught.

That's why old dogs don't chase their tails.

For their part, the two men intertwined hands as they watched the enthusiastic puppy run around in circles and snap at his tail. Greg's head fell onto Nick's shoulder and he smiled.

"Could you give us a moment?" Nick asked the shelter worker and she nodded and stepped out the door. Nick gripped Greg by the shoulders and tried to look the younger man in the eye, but it was difficult as Greg's attention was captured by the puppy.

"Greg, a dog is a big deal."

"Don't treat me like an eight-year-old, I know how to take care of a dog," Greg returned.

Nick paused. "I know," he said. "You're good at caring for…" He couldn't find the word. Greg shrugged awkwardly out of his grip. "No, I mean that this is a big deal… for us."

Greg slid his arms around Nick's waist. "I love…" He smirked. "… that dog."

Nick snorted. "Why do you want a dog so badly?"

Greg didn't answer directly. Instead, he kissed Nick softly on the lips before pulling away and crouching in front of the cage. The puppy was watching him intently, seeing two shades of brown in his eyes now. They were once in conflict with each other, competing for dominance, like two different paints on a palate. But eventually, they blended together, creating depth and shadow on the canvas of his irises. There was harmony where there was once discord. The puppy, self-centered as he was, liked to think that he brought that kind of peace to humans who gazed at him.

But puppies are simple creatures. The only happiness they understand is at the bottom of a red bowl with their name on it. The dog sniffed, and then that elusive white tuft caught his attention again and he was after it immediately.

"I know this is a big deal," Greg said. "You want a dog, I want a dog…" He sighed. "Everybody wants a dog. And this dog wants us. Everybody… _everybody_ will be happy with that."

The woman who worked at the shelter opened the door. "Have you two made a decision?"

Nick watched Greg for a long time, the hint of a smile blossoming at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah," Nick he finally said to the woman. "We'll take him."

She nodded and unlocked the chain-link gate. The puppy fell over himself when he saw that the door was open and panted up at the shelter worker. He fell back, standing on his hind legs and yapping at her, ready to play. She scooped him up in her arms and his course, hot tongue lapped at her skin.

"Would you like to hold him?" she asked the puppy's new parents.

Greg's arms shot out. "Give 'im here."

She smiled and carefully placed the mutt in his arms.

Greg held the dog close to his chest and the puppy climbed up to breathe wetly into his neck. Greg laughed. "He tickles."

"He's yours," said Nick.

"Ours," Greg corrected.

"I'll do the paperwork," Nick told the woman. He gestured at Greg with his thumb. "This one'll be too distracted."

They followed her into the next room, the bright room with the warm, fuzzy floors that the puppy never got to walk on. He squirmed in Greg's arms, wanting to jump down and roll around and dig. Life was too short not to roll in the fuzzy earth.

But Greg held on tightly as Nick went over the papers. They discussed proper housing, and a standard anti-abuse contract, as well as local pet stores and veterinarians. And Greg played with the puppy. He ruffled the dog's fur and the dog kicked his back leg. Nick filled out all the basics. Greg let the puppy lick between his fingers.

And then, Nick raised his head. "What are you going to name him?"

Greg didn't hesitate. "Cooper," he said. Nick turned and cast him a wary look. Greg explicated. "We named the dogs after famous writers. Stoker, Kipling…"

"Cooper," Nick said with a smile. "Of course." He turned back to the clipboard.

Greg scratched Cooper behind the ears. "You're named after a brilliant writer," he said. "Wear it proudly, little guy."

Cooper sneezed.

And Greg laughed.

**THE END**


End file.
